mi 


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ARLOR  READINGS 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


i 


PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS: 


PEOSE  AK"D  POETET 


FOK  THE    USE   OF 


READING    CLUBS 


AJSD    FOB 


PUBLIC   AND   SOCIAL  ENTEETAINMENT. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


EDITED   BY 


LEWIS  B.  MONROE. 


»  °      'J  '    o  ,     ,      "     "     i     ••    «    J       1  J 


BOSTON: 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS. 

NEW    YORK: 
LEE,   SHEPARD,    AND  DILLINGHAM. 

1874. 


156475 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872, 

BY     LEWIS     B.      MONROE, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


/.   .  ;  •:  :  :  •  •. 

.:.v.  ::;•::   : 
••  •-.. 


•  -     •  -     e 


.«.«€«  «   . 


University  Press  :  Welch,  BigeijOW,  &  Co., 

Cambridge 


-PH 


PKEFACE. 

f         ■        

'">■    TN  my  position  as  teacher  of  elocution,  I  have  been 
, '•    -'-  the    recipient    of    numerous    letters    from    amateur 
"~     Readers,  members  of  literary  clubs,  and  others,  asking 
^    me  to  name  some  piece  appropriate  to  a  given  occa- 
(y\    sion.     Teachers  have  desired  choice  readings  for  school 
\    exhibitions.     My  own  public  entertainments  have  been 
~\^  followed  by  verbal   or  written   requests   for   copies   of 
selections  which  excited  the  interest  of  hearers.     Such 
appeals  were  usually  for  pieces  which  were  not   com- 
•^1     mon  or  familiar,  and  of  which  I  possessed  perhaps  but 
"     a  manuscript  copy.      I  was  therefore  put  to  the  task 
of  transcribing  the  desired  pieces  over  and  over  again, 
0     or  forced  to  the  ungracious  duty  of  denying  the  very 
\    proper  request,   for  want   of  time  to  comply  with   it. 
•>.     These  solicitations  were  very  frequently  accompanied  by 
offers  of  compensation  ;  but  manifestly  no  price  could  be 
set  on  what  —  though  costing  much  time  and  trouble 
when  so  multiplied  —  was  in  any  individual  case  a  mere 
courtesy.     I  was  led,  therefore,  to  think  that  a  book  made 
up  in  the  main  of  selections  which  had  proved  entertain- 
ing to  public  audiences,  or  literary  or  social  circles,  might 
be  acceptable  to  the  public  at  large. 


iv  PREFACE. 

The  unexpectedly  cordial  welcome  extended  to  my  first 
volume  —  Humorous  Eeadings  —  encourages  me  to  fol- 
low out  my  intentions  by  adding  the  present  one.  The 
selections  herein  are  mostly  of  a  serious  character,  — 
patriotic,  pathetic,  tragic,  —  with  now  and  then  the 
contrast  of  a  lively  narrative  or  choice  bit  of  humor. 
While  a  few  establislied  favorites  are  included  in  this 
collection,  by  far  the  largest  part  is  made  up  of  pieces 
not  to  be  found  in  any  other  compilation.  J\Iy  object 
has  been,  not  to  furnish  a  volume  of  familiar  elegant 
extracts  for  the  student,  or  rhetorical  compositions  for 
declaimers,  but  to  bring  together  mostly  fresh  and  rare 
productions  which  afford  gratification  when  read  or 
recited  aloud.  I  trust  that  the  volume  may  prove 
serviceable  in  promoting  intelligent  recreation  in  the 
social  and  public  assembly. 

In  compliance  with  many  requests  it  is  my  purpose, 
in  completing  the  series,  to  prepare  a  volume  of  fresh 
and  sparkling  dialogues  and  brief  dramas. 

I  thankfully  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  distin- 
guished authors  and  publishers,  by  whose  consent  copy- 
right selections  have  been  used  in  these  pages.  I  am 
particularly  indebted  to  Messrs.  J.  E.  Osgood  &  Co.  for 
permission  to  use  extracts  from  their  editions  of  the 
works  of  leading  American  authors. 

L.  B.  M. 


COI^TEl^TS. 


-»- 


Page 

The  Poor  Fisher  Folk Victor  Hugo     ....  1 

A  Young  Desperado T.  B.  Aldridi  ....  7 

Charlie  Machree William  J.  Hoppin    .    .  14 

Our  Folks Ethel  Lynn      ....  17 

What  will  become  of  the  Children?     .  Jennie  June     ....  19 

The  Starling Robert  Bttckanan ...  21 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow Robert  Lowell  ....  23 

The  Bells  of  Shandon Rev.  Francis  Mahony   .  26 

The  Lark  in  the  Gold-Fields.    I.    .    .    .  Charles  Reade ....  28 

The  Lark  in  the  Gold-Fields.    IL  .    .     .  Charles  Reade ....  34 

The  Face  against  the  Pane T.  B.  Aldrich  ....  38 

TiiE  Lover  and  Birds .  William  AlUngham,   .    .  41 

The  High  Tide Jean  Ingdow  ....  42 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer      .    .  //.  W.  Lonrjftllmo    .    .  46 

'Biah  Cathcart's  Proposal II.  W.  Beecher    ...  48 

La-NGLEY  Lane Robert  Buchanan ...  50 

At  the  Grindstone  ;  or,  A  Home  View  of 

the  Battle-Field Robert  Buchanan     .    .  53 

The  Pilot J.  B.  Gough    ....  55 

Wainamoinen's  Sowing John  A.  Porter,  M.  D.  .  56 

The  Witch's  Daughter J.  G.  Whittier     ...  60 

The  Horseback  Ride Grace  Greenwood     .    .  65 

The  Veiled  Picture 66 

The  Ship  on  Fire Henry  Bateman   ...  67 

Song  of  the  River 72 

The  Fate  of  IIacgregok James  Hogg    ....  78 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Scene  in  an  Irish  School Gerald  Griffin  . 

Ships  at  Sea Barry  Gray.   . 

Old  Chums Alice  Gary  .    . 

The  Old  Man's  Prayer Jean  Inyelow   . 

War's  End A.  Melville  Bell 

The  Pilgrims J.  G.  Whiltier 

Knocked  about Daniel  Connolly 

The  Laborer William  D.  Gallagher 

The  Gray  Forest  Eagle A.  B.  Street  .    .    . 

When  Mary  was  a  Lassie 

The  Piano  Mania Jennie  June   ,    .    . 

Fontenoy Thomas  Davis     .     . 

Beautiful  Snow J.  W.  Watson    ,    . 

Love  lightens  Labor 

The  King G.  £.  Lessing     .    . 

The  Merry  Soap-Boiler 

Death  of  Poor  Jo Dickens     .... 

Address  of  Leonidas Richard  Glover  .    . 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  A.  Poe    .    . 

Boy  Lost 

Borrioboola  Gha 0.  Goodrich  .    .     . 

The  Old  Apple- Woman 

The  Vagabonds J.  T.  Trowbridge    . 

Outward  Bound William  Allingham  . 

Digging  for  Hidden  Treasure     ....    Charles  Reade     .    . 

The  Old  Sergeant Forceythe  Willson  . 

Little  Goldenhair 

How  's  my  Boy  ? S.  Dobell  .... 

John  Valjohn  and  the  Savoyard    .    .    .    Victor  Hugo   .    .    . 

Shamus  O'Brien J.  S.  Le  Fanu   .    . 

Come  up  from  the  Fields,  Father!      .    .     Wall  Whilman   .    . 

Jupiter  and  Ten J.  T.  Fields   .    .    . 

Jeanie  Deans  and  Queen  Caroline  .    .    .     Walter  ScoU  .    .    . 
OuK  Sister Household  Words    . 


76 

83 

85 

86 

89 

91 

93 

94 

96 

98 

99 

101 

104 

106 

107 

110 

113 

116 

117 

119 

121 

123 

125 

128 

129 

132 

138 

139. 

141 

145 

151 

153 

155 

158 


CONTENTS.  VU 

The  Battle Schiller 159 

The  Young  Gray  Head Blackwood's  Magazine  161 

Bob  Ckatchit's  Dinner Dickens 170 

The  Little  Boy  that  Died J.  D.  Robinson   .    .    .  174 

King  Canute  and  his  Nobles Dr.  IVolcoti   ....  176 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes Lucy  Larcom     ...  177 

The  Regiment's  Return E.J.  Cutler  ....  179 

Enlisting  as  Army  Nurse     .......    Louisa  M.  Alcott     .    .  180 

Mother  and  Poet Mrs.  Browning  ...  183 

Fetching  Water  from  the  Well 186 

The  Pumpkin J.  G.  Whiitier   ...  188 

Civil  War CD.  Shanley.   ...  189 

Patient  Joe 190 

The  Canal- Boat Harriet  Beecher  Siotae  193 

The  Loss  of  the  Hornet 200 

Wounded .    J.  W.  Watson     ...  202 

How  Kaiser  Wilhelm's  Sister  was  won • .  204 

A  Legend  of  Bbegenz Adelaide  Procter    ,    .  211 

The  Voices  at  the  Throne T.  Westwood  ....  216 

Abou  El  Mahr  and  his  Horse Alger's  Oriental  Poetry  218 

Under  the  Snow 223 

Hats Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  224 

An  Order  for  a  Picture Alice  Oiry     ....  226 

Barbara Alexander  Smith     .    .  229 

The  Boat  of  Grass Miss  Kemble  Butler    .  231 

The  Idiot  Boy Southey 235 

The  AL\d  Engineer 237 

Rock  me  to  sleep Mrs.  Akers    ....  244 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Hood 245 

JIoNA's  Waters 249 

Higher  Views  of  the  Union Wendell  Phillips .    .    .  252 

The  Bells Edgar  A.  Poe    ...  254 

The  Drum-Call  in  1861 E.  J.  Cutler  ....  257 

The  Galley-Slave Henry  Abbey  ....  259 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

The  Diver Schiller 261 

Death  of  Leonidas Crohj 266 

My  Experience  in  Elocution John  Neal 268 

The  Kingdosi ; Lizzie  Doien  .    .    ,    .  ^71 

The  Song  of  the  Cossack  to  his  Hokse.    Beranger 274 

Dorothy  in  the  Garret J.  T.  Trowbndge   .    .  276 

Ravenswood  and  Lucy  Ashton     .    .    .    .'    Scott 280 

The  Silent  Tower  of  Bottreaux 287 

The  Hireling  Swiss  Regiment Victor  Hugo    ....  289 

The  Avenging  Childe Lockhart 291 

Fair  Sufferers 293 

Appledoke  in  a  Storm J.  R.  Lowell  ....  295 

I  Hold  Still Juliiis  Sturm  ....  297 

A  Thanksgiving  Dinner Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens  298 

The  Wolves J.  T.  Trov:bridge    .    .  304 

The  Banner  of  the  Covenantees    .    .    .    C.  E.  Norton  ....  806 

Herve  Eiel Robert  Browning     .    .  308 

The  Besieged  Castle Scott 313 

A  Vision  of  Battle S.  Dobell 323 

Harmosan Dean  Trench.     .     .     .  327 

Our  Country  Saved J.  R.  Loivell  ....  329 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray F.  M.  Finch.     .    .    .  330 

The  Sentry  on  the  Tower Sacristan's  Household .  332 

Betsy  and  I  are  out Will  M.  Carleton    .    .  340 

The  Volunteer's  Wife M.  A.  Dennison  .    .    .  343 

The  Eobber 344 

Kit  Carson's  Ride Joaquin  Miller    ...  347 

The  Voice Forceythe  Willson  .    .  851 


PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


THE  POOR  FISHER  FOLK. —Victor  Hugo. 

Translated  by  Rev.  H.  W.  Alexander. 

Try  IS  night ;  within  the  close-shut  cabin-door 

1     The  room  is  wrapped  in  shade,  save  where  there  fall 
'Some  twilight  rays  that  creep  along  the  floor, 
And  show  the  fisher's  nets  upon  the  wall. 

In  the  dim  corner,  from  the  oaken  chest 
A  few  white  dishes  glmimer ;  through  the  shade 
Stands  a  tall  bed  with  dusky  curtains  dressed, 
And  a  rough  mattress  at  its  side  is  laid. 

Five  children  on  the  long  low  mattress  lie,  — 
A  nest  of  little  souls,  it  heaves  with  dreams; 
In  the  high  chimney  the  last  embers  die, 
And  redden  the  dark  roof  with  crimson  gleams. 

The  mother  kneels  and  thinks,  and,  pale  with  fear, 
She  prays  alone,  heax'ing  the  billows  shout ; 
While  to  wild  winds,  to  rocks,  to  midnight  drear, 
The  ominous  old  ocean  sobs  without. 

Poor  wives  of  fishers  !     Ah,  't  is  sad  to  say, 
Our  sons,  our  husbands,  all  that  we  love  best. 
Our  hearts,  om-  souls,  arc  on  those  waves  away,  — 
Those  ravening  wolves  that  know  nor  ruth  nor  rest. 

I  A 


PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Think  how  they  sport  with  those  beloved  forms, 
And  how  the  clarion-blowing  wind  unties 
Above  their  hocads  the  tresses  of  the  storms  : 
Perchance  even  now  the  child,  the  husband  dies  ! 

For  we  can  never  tell  where  they  may  be 
"Who,  to  make  head  against  the  tide  and  gale, 
Between  them  and  the  starless,  soundless  sea, 
Have  but  one  bit  of  plank,  with  one  poor  sail. 

Terrible  fear  J     We  seek  the  pebbly  shore, 
Cry  to  the  rising  billows,  "  Bring  them  home." 
Alas  !  what  answer  gives  their  troubled  roar 
To  the  dark  tho.ught  that  haunts  us  as  we  roam  ? 

Janet  is  sad  :  her  husband  is  alone, 

Wrapped  in  the  black  shroud  of  this  bitter  night : 

His  children  are  so  little,  there  is  none 

To  give  him  aid.     "Were  they  but  old,  they  might." 

Ah,  mother,  when  they  too  are  on  the  main, 

How  wilt  thou  weep,  "  Would  they  were  young  again  !  " 

She  takes  her  lantern,  —  't  is  his  hour  at  last ; 
She  will  go  forth,  and  see  if  the  day  breaks. 
And  if  his  signal-fire  be  at  the  mast ; 
Ah  no,  —  not  yet !  —  no  breath  of  morijing  wakes. 

No  line  of  light  o'er  the  dark  waters  lies ; 

It  rains,  it  rains,  —  how  black  is  rain  at  morn  I 

The  day  comes  trembling,  and  the  young  dawn  cries,  — 

Cries  like  a  baby  fearing  to  be  born. 

Sudden  her  human  eyes,  that  peer  and  watch 
Through  the  deep  shade,  a  mouldering  dwelling  find. 
No  light  within,  —  the  thin  door  shakes,  —  the  thatch 
O'er  the  green  walls  is  twisted  of  the  wind. 


THE   POOR   FISHER  FOLK. 

Yellow  and  dirty  as  a  swollen  rill. 

"Ah  me,"  she  saith,  "here  doth  that  widow  dwell; 

Few  days  ago  my  good  man  left  her  ill ; 

I  will  go  in  and  see  if  all  be  well." 

She  strikes  the  door,  she  listens ;  none  replies, 
And  Janet  shudders.     "  Husbandless,  alone. 
And  with  two  children,  —  they  have  scant  supplies,  - 
Good  neighbor  !     She  sleeps  heavy  as  a  stone." 

She  calls  again',  she  knocks  ;  't  is  silence  still,  — 
No  sound,  no  answer ;  suddenly  the  door, 
As  if  the  senseless  creature  felt  some  thrill 
Of  pity,  turned,  and  open  lay  before. 

She  entered,  and  her  lantern  lighted  all 
The  house  so  still,  but  for  the  rude  waves'  din. 
Through  the  thin  roof  the  plashing  rain-drops  fall. 
But  something  terrible  is  couched  within. 

Half  clothed,  dark-featured,  motionless  lay  she, 
The  once  sti'ong  mother,  now  devoid  of  life ; 
Dishevelled  spectre  of  dead  misery,  — 
All  that  the  poor  leaves  after  his  long  strife. 

The  cold  and  livid  arm,  already  stiff. 

Hung  o'er  the  soaked  straw  of  her  wretched  bed. 

The  mouth  lay  open  horribly,  as  if 

The  parting  soul  with  a  great  cry  had  fled,  — 

That  ciy  of  death  which  startles  the  dim  ear 
Of  vast  eternity.     And  all  the  while 
Two  little  children,  in  one  cradle  near, 
Slept  face  to  face,  on  each  sweet  face  a  smile. 

The  dying  mother  o'er  them,  as  they  lay, 

Had  cast  her  gown,  and  wrapped  her  mantle's  fold  ; 


PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Feeling  chill  death  creep  up,  she  willed  that  they 
Should  yet  be  warm  while  she  was  lying  cold. 

Rocked  by  their  own  weight,  sweetly  sleep  the  twain, 
With  even  breath,  and  foi-eheads  calm  and  clear; 
So  sound  that  the  last  trump  might  call  in  vain, 
For,  being  innocent,  they  have  no  fear. 

Still  howls  the  wind,  and  ever  a  drop  slides 
Through  the  old  rafters,  where  the  thatch  is  weak. 
On  the  dead  woman's  face  it  falls,  and  glides 
Like  living  tears  -along  her  hollow  cheek. 

And  the  dull  wave  sounds  ever  like  a  bell. 
The  dead  lies  still,  and  listens  to  the  strain ; 
For  when  the  radiant  spirit  leaves  its  shell, 
The  poor  corpse  seems  to  call  it  back  again. 

It  seeks  the  soul  through  the  air's  dim  expanse, 
And  the  pale  lip  saith  to  the  sunken  eye, 
"Where  is  the  beauty  of  thy  kindling  glance?" 
"  And  where  thy  balmy  breath  1"  it  makes  reply. 

Alas !  live,  love,  find  primroses  in  spring. 
Fate  hath  one  end  for  festival  and  tear. 
Bid  your  hearts  vibrate,  let  your  glasses  ring ; 
But  as  dark  ocean  drinks  each  streamlet  clear. 

So  for  the  kisses  that  delight  the  flesh, 

For  mother's  worship,  and  for  children's  bloom. 

For  song,  for  smile,  for  love  so  fair  and  "fresh, 

For  laugh,  for  dance,  there  is  one  goal,  —  the  tomb. 

And  why  does  Janet  pass  so  fast  away  1 
What  hath  she  done  within  that  house  of  dread  ] 
What  foldeth  she  beneath  her  mantle  gray  1 
And  hurries  home,  and  hides  it  in  her  bed  1 
With  half-averted  face,  and  nervous  tread. 
What  hattto  she  stolen  from  the  awful  dead  1 


THE   POOR   FISHER   FOLK.  5 

The  dawn  was  whitening  over  the  sea's  verge 
As  she  sat  pensive,  touching  broken  chords 
Of  half-remorsefnl  thought,  while  the  hoarse  surge 
Howled  a  sad  concert  to  her  broken  words. 

"Ah,  my  poor  husband  !  we  had  five  before ; 
Already  so  nuich  care,  so  much  to  find, 
Por  he  must  work  for  all.     I  give  him  more. 
What  was  that  noise  ]    -His  step  ?     Ah  no,  the  wind. 

"  That  I  should  be  afraid  of  hini  I  love  ! 
I  have  done  ill.     If  he  should  beat  me  now, 
I  would  not  blame  him.     Did  not  the  door  move  1 
Not  yet,  poor  man."     She  sits  with  careful  brow, 
Wrapped  in  her  inward  gi-ief ;  nor  hears  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  waves  that  dash  against  his  prow. 
Nor  the  black  cormorant  shrieking  on  the  shore. 

Sudden  the  door  flies  open  wide,  and  lets 
Noisily  in  the  dawn-light  scarcely  clear. 
And  the  good  fisher  dragging  his  damp  nets 
Stands  on  the  threshold  with  a  joyous  cheer. 

"  'T  is  thou  ! "  she  cries,  and  eager  as  a  lover 
Leaps  up,  and  holds  her  husband  to  her  breast ; 
Her  greeting  kisses  all  his  vesture  cover. 
"  'T  is  I,  good  wife  !  "  and  his  broad  face  expressed 

How  gay  his  heart  that  -Janet's  love  made  light. 

"  What  weather  was  it  1 "  "Hard."  "  Your  fishing  1"   "Bad. 

The  sea  was  like  a  nest  of  thieves  to-night  j 

But  I  embrace  thee,  and  my  heart  is  glad. 

"  There  was  a  devil  in  the  wind  that  blew ; 
I  tore  my  net,  caught  nothing,  broke  my  line, 
And  once  I  thought  the  liark  was  broken  too  ; 
What  did  you  all  the  night  long,  Janet  mine]" 


PUBLIC  AND   PAELOE   READINGS. 

She,  trembling  in  the  darkness,  answered,  "11 
0,  naught !  I  sewed,  I  watched,  I  was  afraid  ; 
The  waves  were  loud  as  thunders  from  the  sky  : 
But  it  is  over."     Shyly  then  she  said  :  — 

"  Our  neighbor  died  last  night ;  it  must  have  been 
When  you  were  gone.     She  left  two  little  ones. 
So  small,  so  frail,  —  William  and  Madeline ; 
The  one  just  lisps,  the  other  scarcely  runs." 

The  man  looked  grave,  and  in  the  corner  cast 
His  old  fur  bonnet,  wet  with  rain  and  sea ; 
Muttered  awhile,  and  scratched  his  head,  —  at  last, 
"  We  have  five  children,  this  makes  seven,"  said  he. 

"  Already  in  bad  weather  we  must  sleep 
Sometimes  without  our  supper.     Now  —     Ah,  well, 
'T  is  not  my  fault.     These  accidents  are  deep ; 
It  was  the  good  God's  will.     I  cannot  tell. 

"  Why  did  he  take  the  mother  from  those  scraps, 
No  bigger  than  my  fist  1     'T  is  hard  to  read ; 
A  learned  man  might  understand  perhaps,  — 
So  little,  they  can  neither  work  nor  need. 

"  Go  fetch  them,  wife  ;  they  will  be  frightened  sore, 
If  with  the  dead  alone  they  waken  thus ; 
That  was  the  mother  knocking  at  our  door, 
And  we  must  take  the  children  home  to  us. 

"Brother  and  sister  shall  they  be  to  ours. 
And  they  shall  learn  to  climb  my  knee  at  even. 
When  He  shall  see  these  strangers  in  our  bowers, 
More  fish,  more  food  will  give  the  God  of  heaven. 

"  I  will  work  harder ;  I  will  drink  no  wine  — 
Go  fetcli  them.     Whei-efore  dost  thou  linger,  dearl 
Not  thus  were  wont  to  move  those  feet  of  thine." 
She  drew  the  curtain,  saying,  "They  are  here." 


A  yorNG  DESPERADO. 


A  YOUXG  DESPERADO.  —  T.  B.  Aldrich. 

TT^^'HEX  Johnny  is  all  snugly  curled  up  in  bed,  with  his 
\  V  rosy  cheek  resting  on  one  of  his  scratched  and  grimy 
little  hands,  forming  altogether  a  perfect  picture  of  peace 
and  innocence,  it  seems  hard  to  realize  what  a  busy,  restive, 
pugnacious,  badly  ingenious  little  wretch  he  is  !  There  is 
something  so  comical  in  those  funny  little  shoiS  and  stockings 
sprawling  on  the  floor,  —  they  look  as  if  they  could  jump 
up  and  run  off,  if  they  wanted  to,  —  there  is  something  so 
laughable  about  those  little  trousers,  which  appear  to  be 
making  vain  attempts  to  climb  up  into  the  easy-chair,  — the 
said  trousers  still  retaining  the  shape  of  Johnny's  little  legs, 
and  refusing  to  go  to  sleep,.  —  thei-e  is  something,  I  say, 
about  these  things,  and  about  Johnny  himself,  which  makes 
it  difficult  for  me  to  remember  that,  when  Johnny  is  awake, 
he  not  uufi-equently  displays  traits  of  character  not  to  be 
compared  with  anything  but  the  cunning  of  an  Indian  war- 
rior, combined  with  the  combative  qualities  of  a  trained  prize- 
fighter. 

I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  he  came  by  such  unpleasant 
propensities.  I  am  myself  the  meekest  of  men.  Of  course, 
I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  Johnny  inherited  his  warlike  dis- 
position from  his  mother.  .  She  is  the  gentlest  of  women. 
But  when  you  come  to  Johnny — he's  the  terror  of  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

He  was  meek  enough  at  first,  —  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
first  six  or  seven  days  of  his  existence.  But  I  verily  believe 
that  he  was  n't  more  than  eleven  days  old  when  he  showed 
a  degree  of  temper  that  shocked  me,  —  shocked  me  in 
one  so  young.  On  that  occasion  he  turned  very  red  in 
the  face,  —  he  was  quite  red  before,  —  doubled  up  his  ri- 
diculous hands  in  the  most  threatening  manner,  and  final- 
ly, in  the  impotency  of  rage,  punched  himself  in  the  eye. 
When  I  think  of  the  life  he  led  his  mother  and  Su- 
san   during    the    first    eighteen    months   after   his   arrival, 


8  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

I  shrink  from  the  responsibility  of  allowing  Johnny  to  call 
me  fathei'. 

Johnny's  aggressive  disposition  was  not  more  early  devel- 
oped than  his  duplicity.  By  the  time  he  was  two  years  of 
age  I  had  got  the  following  maxim  by  heart :  "  Whenever  J. 
is  particularly  quiet,  look  out  for  squalls."  He  was  sure  to  be 
in  some  mischief.  And  I  must  say  there  was  a  novelty,  an 
unexpectedness,  an  ingenuity,  in  his  badness  that  constantly 
astonished  me.  The  crimes  he  committed  could  be  arranged 
alphabetically.  He  never  repeated  himself  His  evil  re- 
sources were  inexhaustible.  He  never  did  the  thing  I  ex- 
pected he  wovild.  He  never  failed  to  do  the  thing  I  was 
unprepared  for.  I  am  not  thinking  so  much  of  the  time 
when  he  painted  my  writing-desk  with  raspberry  jam,  as  of 
the  occasion  when  he  perpetrated  an  act  of  original  cruelty 
on  Mopsey,  a  favorite  kitten  in  the  household.  We  were 
sitting  in  the  library.  Johnny  was  playing  in  the  front  hall.' 
In  view  of  the  supernatural  stillness  that  reigned,  I  re- 
marked, suspiciously,  "  Johnny  is  very  quiet,  my  dear."  At 
that  moment  a  series  of  pathetic  mews  was  heard  in  the 
entry,  followed  by  a  violent  scratching  on.  the  oil-cloth.  Then 
Mopsey  bounded  into  the  ix)om  with  three  empty  spools 
strung  upon  her  tail.  The  spools  were  removed  with  great 
difficulty,  especially  the  last  one,  which  fitted  remai'kably 
tight.  After  that,  Mopsey  never  saw  a  work-basket  without 
arching  her  tortoise-shell  back,  and  distending  her  tail  to 
three  times  its  natural  thickness.'  Another  child  would  have 
squeezed  the  kitten,  or  stuck  a  pin  in  it,  or  twisted  her  tail ; 
but .  it  was  reserved  for  the  superior  genius  of  Johnny  to 
string  rather  small  spools  upon  it.  He  never  did  the  obvious 
thing. 

It  was  this  fertility  and  happiness,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  in- 
vention, that  prevented  me  from  being  entirely  dejected  over 
my  son's  behavior  at  this  period.  Sometimes  the  temptation 
to  seize  him  and  shake  him  was  too  strong  for  poor  human 
nature.  But  I  always  regretted  it  -afterwards.  When  I  saw 
him  asleep  in  his  tiny  bed,  with  one  tear  dri^d  on  his  plump 


A  YOUNG   DESPERADO.  9 

velvety  cheek  and  two  little  mice-teeth  visible  throiigh  the 
parted  lips,  I  could  n't  help  thinking  what  a  little  bit  of  a 
fellow  he  was,  with  his  funny  little  fingers  and  his  funny 
little  nails ;  and  it  did  n't  seem  to  me  that  he  was  the  sort 
of  person  to  be  pitched  into  by  a  great  strong  man  like  me. 

"  When  Johnny  grows  older,"  I  used  to  say  to  his  mother, 
"  I  '11  reason  with  him." 

Now  I  don't  know  when  Johnny  will  grow  old  enough  to 
be  reasoned  with.  When  I  reflect  how  hard  it  is  to  reason 
with  wise  grown-up  people,  if  they  happen  to  be  unwilling  to 
accept  your  view  of  matters,  I  am  inclined  to  be  very  patient 
with  Johnny,  whose  experience  is  rather  limited,  after  all, 
though  he  is  six  years  and  a  half  old,  and  naturally  wants  to 
know  why  and  wherefore.  Somebody  says  something  about 
the  duty  of  "blind  obedience."  I  caji't  expect  Johnny  to 
have  more  wisdom  than  Solomon,  and  to  be  more  philosophic 
than  the  philosophers. 

At  times,  indeed,  I  have  been  led  to  expect  this  from  him. 
He  has  shown  a  depth  of  mind  that  warranted  me  in  looking 
for  anything.  At  times  he  seems  as  if  he  were  a  hundred 
years  old.  He  has  a  quaint,  bird-like  way  of  cocking  his 
head  on  one  side,  and  asking  a  question  that  appears  to  be 
the  result  of  years  of  study.  If  I  could  answer  some  of  those 
questions,  I  should  solve  the  darkest  mysteries  of  life  and 
death.  His  inquiries,  however,  generally  have  a  grotesque 
flavor.  One  night,  when  the  mosquitoes  were  making  lively 
raids  on  his  person,  he  appealed  to  me,  suddenly  :  "  How  does 
the  moon  feel  when  a  skeeter  bites  it  V  To  his  meditative 
mind,  the  broad,  smooth  surface  of  the  moon  presented  a 
temptation  not  to  be  resisted  by  any  stray  skeeter. 

I  freely  confess  that  Johnny"  is  now  and  then  too  much  for 
me.  I  wish  I  could  read  him  as  cleverly  as  he  reads  me. 
He  knows  all  my  weak  points ;  ho  sees  right  through  me,  and 
makes  me  feel  that  I  am  a  helpless  infant  in  his  adroit  hands. 
He  has  an  argumentative,  oracular  air,  when  things  have  gone 
wrong,  which  always  upsets  my  dignity.  Yet  how  cunningly 
he  uses  his  power  !      It   is  only  in  tlie  last  oxti'emity  that 


10  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

he  crosses  his  legs,  puts  his  hands  into  his  trousers-pockets, 
and  argues  the  case  with  me.  One  day  last  week  he  was  very- 
near  coming  to  grief.  By  my  directions,  kindling-wood  and 
coal  are  placed  every  morning  in  the  library  gTate,  in  order 
that  I  may  have  a  fire  the  moment  I  return  at  night. 
Master  Johnny  must  needs  apply  a  lighted  match  to  this 
an-angement  early  in  the  forenoon.  The  fire  was  not  dis- 
covered until  the  blower  was  one  mass  of  red-hot  iron, 
and  the  wooden .  mantel-piece  was  smoking  with  the  in- 
tense heat. 

When  I  came  home,  Johnny  was  led  from  the  store-room, 
where  he  had  been  imprisoned  from  an  early  period,  and 
where  he  had  employed  himself  in  eating  about  two  dollars' 
worth  of  preserved  pears. 

"'johnny,"  said  I,  in  as  severe  a  tone  as  one  could  use  in 
addressing  a  person  whose  forehead  glistened  with  syrup,  — 
"  Johnny,  don't  you  remember  that  I  have  always  told  you 
never  to  meddle  with  matches'?" 

It  was  something  delicious  to  see  Johnny  trying  to  remem- 
ber. He  cast  one  eye  meditatively  up  to  the  ceiling,  then 
he  fixed  it  abstractedly  on  the  canary-bird,  then  he  rubbed 
his  ruffled  brows  with  a  sticky  hand  ;  but  really,  for  the 
life  of  him,  he  could  n't  recall  any  injunctions  concerning 
matches. 

"  I  can't,  papa,  truly,  truly,"  said  Johnny  at  length.  "  I 
guess  I  must  have  forgot  it." 

"Well,  Johnny,  in  order  that  you  may  not  forget  it  in 
future  —  " 

Here  Johnny  was  seized  with  an  idea.  He  interrupted 
me. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  do,  papa,  — you  just  put  it  down  in 
writin'." 

With  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  settled  a  question  definitely, 
but  at  the  same  time  is  willing  to  listen  politely  to  any  crude 
suggestions  that  you  may  have  to  throw  out,  Johnny  crossed 
his  legs,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  those  wonderful  trousers- 
pockets.    I  turned  my  face  aside,  for  I  felt  a  certain  weakness 


A   YOUNG   DESPERADO.  11 

creeping  into  the  comers  of  my  moiith.  I  was  lost.  In  an 
instant  the  little  head,  covered  all  over  with  yellow  curls,  was 
laid  upon  my  knee,  and  Johnny  was  crying,  "  I  'm  so  very, 
very  sorry  ! " 

I  have  said  that  Johnny  is  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood. 
I  think  I  have  not  done  the  young  gentleman  an  injustice. 
If  there  is  a  window  broken  within  the  radius  of  two  miles 
from  our  house,  Johnny's  ball,  or  a  stone  known  to  come  from 
his  dexterous  hand,  is  almost  certain  to  be  found  in  the  bat- 
tered premises.  I  never  hear  the  musical  jingling  of  splin- 
tered glass,  but  my  porte-monnaie  gives  a  convulsive  throb  in 
my  breast-pocket.  There  is  not  a  doorstep  in  our  street  that 
has  n't  borne  evidences  in  red  chalk  of  his  artistic  ability ; 
there  is  n't  a  bell  that  he  has  n't  rung  and  rim  away  from 
at  least  three  hundred  times.  Scarcely  a  day  passes  but  he 
falls  ont  of  something,  or  over  something,  or  into  something. 
A  ladder  running  up  to  the  dizzy  roof  of  an  unfinished  build- 
ing is  no  more  to  be  resisted  by  him  than  the  back  platform 
of  a  horse-car,  when  the  conductor  is  collecting  his  fare  in 
front. 

I  should  not  like  to  enumerate  the  battles  that  Johnny  has 
fought  during  the  past  eight  months.  It  is  a  physical  impos- 
sibility, I  should  judge,  for  him  to  refuse  a  challenge.  He 
picks  his  enemies  out  of  all  ranks  of  society.  He  has  fought 
the  ash-man's  boy,  the  grocer's  boy,  the  rich  boys  over  the 
way,  and  any  number  of  miscellaneous  boys  who  chanced  to 
stray  into  our  street. 

I  can't  say  that  this  young  desperado  is  always  victorious. 
I  have  known  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  be  in  a  state  of  unpleas- 
ant redness  for  weeks  together.  I  have  known  him  to  come 
home  frequently  with  no  brim  to  his  hat ;  once  he  presented 
himself  with  only  one  shoe,  on  which  occasion  his  jacket  was 
split  up  the  back  in  a  manner  that  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  an  over-ripe  chestnut  bursting  out  of  its  bur.  How 
he  will  fight !  But  this  I  can  say,  —  if  Johnny  is  as  cruel 
as  Caligula,  he  is  every  bit  as  brave  as  Agamemnon.  I 
never  know   liiin   to  strike  a  bov  smaller  than  himself.       I 


12  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

never  knew  him  to  tell  a  lie  when  a  lie  would  save  him  from 
disaster. 

At  present  the  General,  as  I  sometimes  call  him,  is  in  hos- 
pital. He  was  seriously  wounded  at  the  battle  of  The  Little 
Go-Cart,  on  the  9th  instant.  On  returning  from  my  office 
yesterday  evening,  I  found  that  scarred  veteran  stretched 
upon  a  sofa  in  the  sitting-room,  with  a  patch  of  brown  paper 
stuck  over  his  left  eye,  and  a  convicting  smell  of  vinegar 
about  him. 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  dolefully,  "Johnny  's  been  fighting 
again.  That  horrid  Baruabee  boy  (who  is  eight  years  old,  if 
he  is  a  day)  won't  let  the  child  alone." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  hope  Johnny  gave  that  Barnabee  boy  a 
thrashing." 

"Didn't  I,  though?"  cries  Johnny,  from  the  sofa.    "/  bet!" 

"  0  Johnny  !  "  says  his  mother. 

Now,  several  days  previous  to  this,  I  had  addressed  the 
General  in  the  following  terms  :  — 

"  Johnny,  if  I  ever  catch  you  in  another  fight  of  your  own 
seeking,  I  shall  cane  you." 

In  consequence  of  this  declaration,  it  became  my  duty  to 
look  into  the  circumstances  of  the  present  affair,  which  will 
be  known  in  history  as  the  battle  of  The  Little  Go-Cart. 
After  going  over  the  ground  very  carefully,  I  found  the  fol- 
lowing to  be  the  state  of  the  case. 

It  seems  that  the  Barnabee  Boy  —  I  speak  of  him  as  if  he 
were  the  Benicia  Boy  —  is  the  oldest  pupil  in  the  Primary 
Military  School  (I  think  it  must  be  a  military  school)  of  which 
Johnny  is  a  recent  member.  This  Barnabee,  having  whipped 
every  oiae  of  his  companions,  was  sighing  for  new  boys  to 
conquer,  when  Johnny  joined  the  institution.  He  at  once 
made  friendly  overtures  of  battle  to  Johnny,  who,  oddly 
enough,  seemed  indisposed  to  encourage  his  advances.  Then 
Barnabee  began  a  series  of  petty  persecutions,  which  had 
contiimed  up  to  the  day  of  the  fight. 

On  the  moi-ning  of  that  eventful  day  the  Barnabee  Boy  ap- 
peared in  the  school-yard  with  a  small  go-cart.    After  running 


A   YOUXG   DESPERADO. 


13 


down  on  Johnny  several  times  with  this  useful  vehicle,  he 
captured  Johnny's  cap,  filled  it  with  sand,  and  dragged  it  up 
and  down  the  yard  triumphantly  in  the  go-cart.  This  made 
the  General  vei-y  angry,  of  course,  and  he  took  an  early  op- 
portunity of  kicking  over  the  triumphal  car,  in  doing  which 
he  kicked  one  of  the  wheels  so  far  into  space  that  it  has  not 
been  seen  since. 

This  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  The  battle  would  have 
taken  place  then  and  there ;  but  at  that  moment  the  school- 
bell  rang,  and  the  gladiators  were  obliged  to  give  their  atten- 
tion to  Smith's  Speller.  But  a  gloom  hung  over  the  morn- 
ing's exercises,  —  a  gloom  that  was  not  dispelled  in  the  back 
row,  when  the  Barnabee  Boy  stealthily  held  up  to  Johnny's 
vision  a  slate,  whereon  was  inscribed  this  fearful  message  :  — 


'yioLb 


Johnny  got  it  "  put  down  in  writin'  "  this  time  ! 

After  a  hasty  glance  at  the  slate,  the  General  went  on  with 
his  studies  composedly  enough.  Eleven  o'clock  came,  and 
with  it  came  recess,  and  with  recess  the  inevitable  battle. 

Now  I  do  not  intend  to  describe  the  details  of  this  brilliant 
action,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that,  though  there  were  seven 
young  gentlemen  (connected  with  the  Pi-imary  School)  on  the 
field  as  war  correspondents,  their  accounts  of  the  engagement 
are  so  contradictory  as  to  be  utterly  worthless.  On  one  point 
they  all  agree,  —  that  the  contest  was  sharp,  short,  and  de- 
cisive. The  truth  is,  the- General  is  a  quick,  wir\%  experienced 
old  hero ;  and  it  did  n't  take  him  long  to  rout  the  Barnabee 


14  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Boy,  who  was  in  reality  a  coward,  as  all  bullies  and  tyrants 
ever  have  been,  and  always  will  be. 

I  don't  approve  of  boys  fighting;  I  don't  defend  Johnny; 
but  if  the  General  wants  an  extra  ration  or  two  of  preserved 
pear,  he  shall  have  it ! 

I  am  well  aware  that,  socially  speaking,  Johnny  is  a  Black 
Sheep.  I  know  that  I  have  brought  him  up  badly,  and  that 
there  is  not  an  unmarried  man  or  woman  in  the  United  States 
who  would  n't  have  brought  him  up  very  differently.  It 's  a 
great  pity  that  the  only  people  who  know  how  to  manage 
children  never  have  any !  At  the  same  time,  Johnny  is  not 
a  black  sheep  all  over.  He  has  some  white  spots.  His  sins 
—  if  wiser  folks  had  no  greater  !  —  are  the  result  of  too  much 
animal  life.  They  belong  to  his  evanescent  youth,  and  will 
pass  away ;  but  his  honesty,  his  generosity,  his  bravery, 
belong  to  his  character,  and  are  enduring  qualities.  The 
quickly  crowding  years  will  tame  him.  A  good  large  pane 
of  glass,  or  a  seductive  bell-knob,  ceases  in  time  to  have 
attractions  for  the  most  reckless  spirit.  And  I  am  quite  con- 
fident that  Johnny  will  be  a  great  statesman,  or  a  valorous 
soldier,  or,  at  all  events,  a  good  citizen,  after  he  has  got  over 
being  A  Young  Desperado. 


CHARLIE  MACHREE.  —  William  J.  Hoppin. 
A  BALLAD. 

COME  over,  come  over 
The  river  to  me, 
.  If  ye  are  my  laddie. 
Bold  Charlie  Machree. 

Here 's  Mary  McPherson 
And  Susy  O'Linn, 
Who  say,  ye  're  faint-hearted, 
And  darena  plunge  in. 


CHARLIE   MACHREE.  15 

But  the  dark  rolling  water, 
Though  deep  as  the  sea, 
I  know  willna  scare  ye, 
Nor  keep  ye  frae  me ; 

For  stout  is  yer  back, 
And  strong  is  yer  arm, 
And  the  heart  in  yer  bosom 
Is  faithful  and  warm. 

Come  over,  come  over 
The  river  to  me, 
If  ye  are  my  laddie, 
Bold  Charlie  Machree ! 

I  see  him,  I  see  him. 
He  's  plunged  in  the  tide. 
His  strong  arms  are  dashing 
The  big  waves  aside. 

0  the  dark  rolling  water 
Shoots  swift  as  the  sea. 
But  blithe  is  the  glance 
Of  his  bonny  blue  e'e ; 

And  his  cheeks  are  like  roses, 
Twa  buds  on  a  boiigh  ; 
Who  says  ye  're  ftiint-hearted, 
My  brave  Charlie,  now  1 

Ho,  ho,  foaming  river. 
Ye  may  roar  as  ye  go, 
But  ye  canna  bear  Charlie 
To  the  dark  loch  below  ! 

Come  over,  come  over 
The  river  to  me, 


16  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS.  | 

My  true-hearted  laddie, 

My  Charlie  Machree !       .  ■ 

He  's  sinking,  he  's  sinking, 
0,  what  shall  I  do  ! 
Strike  out,  Charlie,  boldly, 
Ten  strokes  and  ye  're  thro'. 

He  's  sinking,  0  Heaven  ! 
Ne'er  fear,  man,  ne'er  fear  ; 
I  've  a  kiss  for  ye,  Charlie, 
As  soon  as  ye  're  here  ! 

He  rises,  I  see  him,  — 
Five  strokes,  Charlie,  mair,  — 
He  's  shaking  the  wet 
From  his  bonny  brown  hair  ^ 

He  conquers  the, current, 

He  gains  on  the  sea,  —  , 

Ho,  where  is  the  swimmer 

Like  Charlie  Machree ! 

Come  over  the  river, 
But  once  come  to  me, 
And  I  '11  love  ye  forever, 
Dear  Charhe  Machree. 

He  's  sinking,  he  's  gone,  — 
0  God,  it  is  I, 

It  is  I,  who  have  killed  him  — 
Help,  help  !  — he  must  die. 

Help,  help  !  —  ah,  he  rises,  — 
Strike  out  and  ye  're  free. 
Ho,  bravely  done,  Charlie, 
Once  more  now,  for  me  ! 


OUR   FOLKS.  17 

Now  cling  to  the  rock, 
Now  gie  us  yer  hand,  — 
Ye  're  safe,  dearest  Charlie, 
Ye  're  safe  on  the  land  ! 

Come  rest  in  my  bosom, 
If  there  ye  can  sleep  ; 
I  canna  speak  to  ye, 
I  only  can  weep. 

Ye  've  crossed  the  wild  river. 
Ye  've  risked  all  for  me. 
And  I  'U  part  frae  ye  never, 
Dear  Charlie  Machree ! 


OUR   FOLKS.  — Ethel  Lynn. 

Hi:    Harry  Holly!  Halt,— and  teU 
A  fellow  just  a  thing  or  two ; 
You  've  had  a  furlough,  been  to  see 

How  all  the  folks  in  Jersey  do. 
It 's  months  ago  since  I  was  there,  — 

I,  and  a  bullet  from  Fair  Oaks. 
When  you  were  home,  —  old  comrade,  say. 
Did  you  see  any  of  our  folks'? 

"  You  did  1      Shake  hands,  —  0,  ain't  I  glad ; 

For  if  I  do  look  gi'im  and  rough, 
I  've  got  some  feeliu'  — 

People  think 

A  soldier's  heart  is  mighty  tough ; 
But,  Harry,  when  the  bullets  fly, 

And  hot  saltjjetre  flames  and  smokes, 
While  whole  battalions  lie  afield,  • 

One  's  apt  to  think  about  his  folks. 


18  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

"  And  so  you  saw  them  —  when  1  and  where  1 

The  old  man  —  is  he  hearty  yet  ? 
And  mother  —  does  she  fade  at  all  1 

Or  does  she  seem  to  pine  and  fret 
For  me  '?      And  Sis  1  —  has  she  grown  tall  1 

And  did  you  see  her  friend  —  you  know 
That  Annie  Moss  — 

(How  this  pipe  chokes  !) 
Where  did  you  see  her^  —  tell  me,  Hal, 

A  lot  of  news  about  our  folks. 

"You  saw  them  in  the  chui'ch  —  yet'say; 

It 's  likely,  for  they  're  always  there. 
Not  Sunday  ?  no  1      A  funeral  1  Who  1 

Who,  Harry  1   how  you.  shake  and  stare  ! 
All  well,  you  say,  and  all  were  out. 

What  ails  you,  Hal  1   Is  this  a  hoax  1 
Why  don't  you  tell  me,  like  a  man. 

What  is  the  matter  with  our  folks'?" 

"  I  said  all  well,  old  comrade,  true ; 

I  say  all  well,  for  He  knows  best 
Who  takes  the  young  ones  in  his  arms, 

Before  the  sun  goes  to  the  west. 
The  axe-man  Death  deals  right  and  left, 

And  flowers  fall  as  well  as  oaks ; 
And  so  — 

Fair  Annie  blooms  no  more  ! 
And  that 's  the  matter  with  your  folks. 

"  See,  this  long  curl  was  kept  for  you ; 

And  this  white  blossom  from  her  breast ; 
And  here  —  your  sister  Bessie  wrote 

A  letter,  telling  all  the  rest. 
Bear  up,  old  friend." 

Nobody  speaks ; 


WHAT   WILL    BECOME    OF    THE    CHILDREN?  19 

Only  the  old  camp-raven  croaks, 
And  soldiers  whisper : 

"  Boys,  be  still ; 
There  's  some  bad  news  from  Grainger's  folks." 

He  turns  his  back  —  the  only  foe 

That  ever  saw  it  —  on  this  grief, 
And,  as  men  will,  keeps  down  the  tears 

Kind  Nature  sends  to  Woe's  relief. 
Then  answers  he  : 

"  Ah,  Hai,  I  '11  try ; 

But  in  my  throat  there  's  something  chokes, 
Because,  you  see,  I  've  thought  so  long 

To  count  her  in  among  our  folks. 

"  I  s'pose  she  must  be  happy  now, 

But  still  I  will  keep  thinking  too, 
I  could  have  kept  all  trouble  off. 

By  being  tender,  kind,  and  true. 
But  maybe  not. 

She  's  safe  up  there, 

And  when  the  Hand  deals  other  strokes. 
She  '11  stand  by  Heaven's  gate,  I  know. 

And  wait  to  welcome  in  our  folks." 


WHAT  WILL  BECOME   OF   THE   CHILDREN  1  — 

Jennie  June. 

MRS.  NIPKIN,  West  Twenty-Fifth  Street,  has 
rooms  on  the  third  story,  which  she  is  desirous  of 
letting,  with  board,  for  the  winter,  or  permanently,  to  fami- 
lies without  children.     References  exchanged." 

What    a   delightful  woman    this    Mrs.    Nipkiu    must    be ! 

Wonder  if  she  ever  had  any  children  of  her  own,  or  felt  lier 

V        heart  beat  a  single  throb  quicker  at  hearing  tiny  lips  lisp 


20  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Mother.  Only  "families"  luitliout  children  can  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  her  society,  or  the  luxury  of  her  third-story 
front,  — families  which  consist  of  "  Mr.  So-and-so  and  lady," 
or  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  lady,  and  servant  "  ;  as  if  there  could  be' 
a  "family"  without  children;  as  if  children  did  not  consti- 
tute the  very  life  and  hope  and  joy  of  a  family  circle ;  as  if 
the  pain  and  sorrow  which  they  bring  had  not  its  sacred  use 
in  rooting  out  hard,  vile,  selfish,  and  worldly  passions ;  as  if 
the  love  they  providentially  bring  with  them,  as  safeguard 
and  protection,  did  not,  in  its  pure  devotion  and  holy  disin- 
terestedness, link  lis  to  the  divine  more  nearly  than  any 
other  inspiration  or  instinct  of  which  human  nature  is  sus- 
ceptible. 

"  Families  without  children,"  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Nipkin, 
how  harshly  that  would  grate  on  the  ears  of  the  lately  be- 
reaved mother,  how  coldly  and  selfishly  on  the  ears  of  the 
newly  made  father?  Is  it  conceivable  that  you  were  ever 
a  child  yourself,  or,  if  you  were,  that  you  were  other  than  a 
snarling,  passionate  little  vixen,  who  had  managed  to  daguerre- 
otype the  horror  with  which  she  inspired  others  upon  her 
own  heart  and  brain,  and  in  later  years  exhibited  the  de- 
formed and  misshapen  product  to  the  world  in  the  form  of  a 
stupid,  unwomanly  advertisement. 

And  yet  it  cannot  be  that  yours  is  a  "  family  without  chil- 
dren," Mrs.  Nipkin,  or  you  would  know  the  "  aching  void," 
the  desolation  of  heart,  the  dreary  loneliness  of  life,  the 
vacant  spot  in  the  soul,  which  only  the  sweet  smiles  and 
merry  laughter  of  a  child  can  fill ;  and  you  would  pine  for 
the  presence  of  so  pure  and  innocent  a  spirit,  in  order  that 
it  might  serve  as  a  link  between  your  selfish  worldli- 
ness  and  the  holy,  spotless  character  and  attributes  of  your 
Maker. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  where  you  desire  to  go 
when  you  die,  Mrs.  Nipkin ;  not  certainly  to  the  kingdom 
over  which  Christ  reigns,  for  he  called  little  children  to  him 
and  blessed  them,  and  said  of  s^^ch  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; 
so  it  is  evident  you  could  not  make  your  living  there,  Mrs. 


THE   STAELIXG.  21 

Nipkin,  by  furnishing  rooms  and  board  to  ."  families  without 
childi-en." 

We  pity  you,  poor  ]\Irs.  Nipkin.  You  do  not  know  the 
sweet  pleasure  of  pressing  a  soft,  tiny  face  against  your  own, 
of  watching  its  cunning  looks  and  pretty  ways,  of  hearing  its 
first  effort  to  pronounce  your  name,  of  guiding  its  trembling 
little  feet  in  their  essay  to  preserve  the  giddy  balance  on  the 
uncertain  floor,  of  listening  to  the  first  lisped  prayer  to  God 
to  "  bess  fader,  moder,  ittle  boder,  and  sister,  and  all  'latious, 
and  fens,  and  all  the  world,"  even  Mrs.  Nipkin,  who  -would 
not  admit  a  little  child  in  the  dismal  precincts  of  her  thii'd 
stoiy. 

Good  by,  Mrs.  Nipkin ;  we  have  no  ill-feeling  against  you ; 
we  only  hope  Heaven  will  send  you  a  dear  little  baby  to 
soften  your  heart,  and  show  you  the  difference  between  fami- 
lies with  and  "  families  without  children." 


THE    STARLING.  —  Robert  Buchanan. 

THE  little  lame  tailor  sat  stitching  and  snarling, 
Who  in  the  world  was  the  tailor's  darling  1 
To  none  of  his  kind 
Was  he  well  inclined, 
But  he  doted  on  Jack  the  starling. 

For  the  bird  had  a  tongue,  and  of  words  a  store, 
And  his  cage  was  hung  just  over  the  door. 
And  he  saw  the  people  and  heard  the  roar,  — 
Folk  coming  and  going  evermore,  — 
And  he  looked  at  the  tailor,  —  and  swore. 

From  a  country  lad  the  tailor  bought  him,  — 
His  training  was  bad,  for  tramps  had  taught  him ; 
On  alehouse  benches  his  cage  had  been, 
While  louts  and  wenches  made  jests  obscene,  — 


22  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

But  he  learned,  no  doubt,  his  oaths  from  fellows 
Who  travel  about  with  kettle  and  bellows, 
And  three  or  four,  the  roundest  by  far 
That  ever  he  swore,  were  taught  by  a  tar. 

And  the  tailor  heard.     "  We  '11  be  friends  !  "  said  he, 

"  You  're  a  clever  bird,  and  our  tastes  agree,  — 

We  both  are  old,  and  esteem  life  base,  • 

The  whole  w^orld  cold,  things  out  of  j)lace, 

And  we  're  lonely  too,  and  full  of  care,  — 

So  what  can  we  do  but  swear? 

"  The  devil  take  you,  how  you  mutter  !  — • 

Yet  there  's  much  to  make  you  swear  and  flutter. 

You  want  the  fi-esh  air  and  the  sunlight,  lad, 

And  your  prison  there  feels  dreary  and  sad, 

And  here  I  frown  in  a  prison  dreary. 

Hating  the  town,  and  feeling  weary  :. 

We  're  too  confined.  Jack,  and  we  want  to  fly, 

And  you  blame  mankind,  Jack,  and  so  do  I ! 

And  then,  again,  by  chance  as  it  were, 

We  learned  from  men  how  to  grumble  and  swear ; 

You  let  your  throat  by  the  scamjjs  be  guided, 

And  swore  by  rote,  —  all  just  as  I  did  ! 

And  without  beseeching,  relief  is  brought  us,  — 

For  we  're  turning  the  teaching  on  those  who  taught,  us  ! " 

A  haggard  and  ruffled  old  fellow  was  Jack, 

With  a  grim  face  muffled  in  ragged  black. 

And  his  coat  was  rusty  and  never  neat. 

And  his  wings  were  dusty  from  the  dismal  street, 

And  he  sidelong  peered,  with  eyes  of  soot  too, 

And  scowled  and  sneered,  —  and  was  lame  of  a  foot  too  !  I 

And  he  longed  to  go  from  whence  he  came  ;  — 

And  the  tailor,  you  know,  was  just  the  same. 

All  kinds  of  weather  they  felt  confined, 
And  swore  together  at  all  mankind ; 


THE   BELIEF    OF   LUCKNOW.  -         23 

For  their  mirth  was  done,  and  they  felt  like  brothers, 
And  the  swearing  of  one  meant  no  more  than  the  other's ; 
'T  was  just  a  way  they  had  learned,  you  sec,  — 
Each  wanted  to  say  only  this,  —  "^Woe  's  me  ! 

I  'm  a  poor  old  fellow, 
And  I  'm  prisoned  so. 

While  the  sun  shines  mellow, 

And  the  corn  waves  j^ellow. 
And  the  fresh  winds  blow,  ^ — 
And  the  folk  don't  care  if  1  live  or  die, 
But  I  long  for  air,  and  I  wish  to  fly  !  " 
Yet  unable  to  utter  it,  and  too  wild  to  bear, 
They  could  only  mutter  it,  and  swear. 

Many  a  year  they  dwelt  in  the  city, 

In  their  prisons  drear,  and  none  felt  pity. 

And  few  were  sparing  of  censure  and  coldness. 

To  hear  them  sweai-ing  with  such  plain  boldness ; 

But  at  last,  by  the  Lord  their  noise  was  stopt,  — 

For  down  on  his  board  the  tailor  dropt, 

And  they  found  him  dead,  and  done  with  snarling, 

And  over  his  head  still  griimbled  the  starling ; 

But  when  an  old  Jew  claimed  the  goods  of  the  tailor, 

And  with  eye  askew  eyed  the  feathery  railer, 

And,  with  a  frown  at  the  dirt  and  rust, 

Took  the  old  cage  down,  in  a  shower  of  dust,  — 

Jack,  with  heart  aching,  felt  life  past  bearing. 

And,  shivering,  quaking,  all  hope  forsaking,  died  swearing. 


THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW.  —  Robert  Lowell. 

OTHAT  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort ! 
We  knew  that  it  was  tlio  last. 
That  the  enemy's  mines  had  crept  surely  in, 
And  the  end  was  coming  fast. 


24  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death, 

And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on ; 
It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar, 

And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair,  young,  gentle  thing, 
Wasted  with  fever  and  with  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid, 

And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knee ; 
"  When  my  father  comes  home  frae  the  pleugh,"  she  said, 

"  0,  please  then  waken  me  !  " 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor, 

In  the  flecking  of  woodbine  shade, 
When  the  house-dog  sprawls  by  the  half-open  door, 

And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 

It  was  smoke  and  roar,  and  powder  stench, 

And  hopeless  waiting  for  death  ; 
But  the  soldiers  wife,  like  a  full-tired  child. 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep,  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  an  English  village  lane. 
And  wall  and  garden  — r-  till  a  sudden  scream 

Brought  me  back  to  the  rear  again. 

There  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening. 

And  then  a  broad  gladness  broke 
All  over  her  face,  and  she  took  my  hand, 

And  drew  me  near  and  spoke  : 

"  The  Highlanders  !    0,  diuna  je  hear 
The  slogan  far  awa'  1 


THE   RELIEF    OF    LUCKNOW.  25 

The  McGregors  1     Ah  !  I  ken  it  weel ; 
It  is  the  grandest  of  them  a'. 

"  God  bless  the  bonny  Highlanders  ! 

We  're  saved  !  we  're  saved  ! "  she  cried  ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees,  and  thanks  to  God 

Poured  forth,  like  a  full  flood-tide. 

Along  the  battery  line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men  ; 
And  they  started,  for  they  were  to  die  : 

Was  life  so  near  them,  then  1 

They  listened,  for  life  ;  and  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off,  and  the  far-off  roar 
Were  all,  —  and  the  Colonel  shook  his  head, 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  once  more. 

Then  Jessie  said,  "  The  slogan  's  dune, 

But  can  ye  no  hear  them  noo  1 
The  Campbells  are  comin' !     It 's  nae  a  dream ; 

Om-  succors  hae  broken  through  !  " 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar, 

But  the  pipers  we  could  not  hear ; 
So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hopeless  war, 

And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 

It  was  not  long  ere  it  must  be  heard,  — 

A  shrilling,  ceaseless  sound  ; 
It  was  no  noise  of  the  strife  afar, 

Or  the  sappers  underground. 

It  was  the  pipe  of  the  Highlanders, 

And  now  they  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  ; 

It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God, 
And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 
2 


26  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

And  they  wept  and  shook  each  other's  hands, 
And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd; 

And  every  one  knelt  down  where  we  stood. 
And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 

That  happy  day,  when  we  welcomed  them  in. 

Our  men  put  Jessie  first ; 
And  the  General  took  her  hand,  and  cheers 

From  the  men  like  a  volley  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed, 
Marching  roimd  and  round  our  line  ; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
And  the  pipers  played  "  Atdd  Lang  Syne." 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON.— Rev.  Francis  Mahony. 

Sabata  pango  ; 
Funera  plango  ; 
Solemnia  clango. 

Liscription  on  an  old  Bell. 

WITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection, 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  Bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would. 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spell. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where  'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee,  ' 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 


THE   BELLS    OF    SHANDON.  27 

The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  bells  chiming 
FuU  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate ; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame. 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  on  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
0  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  gi'and  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee  1 


28  PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  EEADINGS. 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
"VVhile  on  tower  and  kiosko 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets. 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there 's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me  : 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


THE  LARK  IN  THE  GOLD-FIELDS.  —  Charles  Readk 

PART    FIRST. THE    LARK. 

"  rpiOM,  I  invite  you  to  a  walk." 

JL  "  Well,  George !  a  walk  is  a  great  temptation  this 
beautiful  day." 

It  was  the  month  of  January,  in  Australia  ;  a  blazing-hot 
day  was  beginning  to  glow  through  the  freshness  of  morning ; 
the  sky  was  one  cope  of  pure  blue,  and  the  southern  air  crept 
slowly  up,  its  wings  clogged  with  fragrance,  and  just  tuned 
the  trembling  leaves,  —  no  more. 

"  Is  not  this  pleasant,  Tom,  —  is  n't  it  sweet  1 " 

"  I  believe  you,  George  !  and  what  a  shame  to  run  down 
such  a  country  as  this  !  There  they  come  home,  and  tell  you 
the  flowers  have  no  smell ;  but  they  keep  dark  about  the  trees 
and  bushes  being  haystacks  of  flowers.  Snuff"  the  air  as  we 
go ;  it  is  a  thousand  English  gardens  in  one.     Look  at  all 


THE   LARK   IX   THE    GOLD-FIELDS.  29 

those  tea-scnibs,  each  ■with  a  thousand  blossoms  on  it  as  sweet 
as  honey  ;  and  the  golden  wattles  on  the  other  side,  and  all 
smelling  like  seven  o'clock. 

"  Ay,  lad  !  it  is  very  refreshing  ;  and  it  is  Sunday,  and  we 
have  got  away  from  the  wicked  for  an  hour  or  two.  But  in 
England  there  would  be  a  little  white  church  out  yonder,  and 
a  spire  like  an  angel's  foi-efinger  pointing  from  the  grass  to 
heaven,  and  the  lads  in  their  clean  frocks  like  snow,  and  the 
lasses  in  their  white  stockings  and  new  shawls,  and  the  old 
women  in  their  scarlet  cloaks  and  black  bonnets,  all  going 
One  road,  and  a  tinkle-tinkle  from  the  belfry,  that  would 
Cum  all  these  other  sounds  and  colors  and  sweet  smells 
holy  as  well  as  fair  on  the  Sabbath  morn.  Ah,  England ! 
Ah!" 

"  You  will  see  her  again,  —  no  need  to  sigh.  Prejudice  be 
hanged,  this  is  a  lovely  land." 

"  So  't  is,  Tom,  so  't  is.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  piits  me 
out  a  little  bit ;  —  nothing  is  what  it  sets  up  for  here.  If 
you  see  a  ripe  pear  and  go  to  eat  it,  it  is  a  lump  of  hard 
wood.  Next  comes  a  thing  the  very  sight  of  which  turns 
your  stomach,  and  that  is  delicious,  —  a  loquot,  for  instance. 
There,  now,  look  at  that  magpie  ;  well,  it  is  Australia,  so  that 
magpie  is  a  crow  and  not  a  magpie  at  alb  Everything  pre- 
tends to  be  some  old  friend  or  other  of  mine,  and  turns  out 
a  stranger.  Here  is  nothing  but  surprises  and  deceptions. 
The  flowers  make  a  point  of  not  smelling,  and  the  bushes, 
that  nobody  expects  to  smell  or  wants  to  smell,  they  smell 
lovelv." 

"  A\liat  does  it  matter  where  the  smell  comes  from,  so 
that  you  get  it?" 

"  Why,  Tom,"  replied  Geoi'ge,  opening  his  eyes,  "  it  makes 
all  the  difference.  I  like  to  s'mell  a  flower,  — a  flower  is  not 
complete  without  smell ;  but  I  don't  care  if  I  never  smell  a 
bu.sh  till  I  die.  Then  the  birds,  —  they  laugh  and  talk  like 
Christians  ;  they  make  me  split  my  sides,  bless  their  little 
hearts  !  but  they  won't  chirrup.  It  is  Australia  !  where  every- 
thing is  inside-ou*  and  topsy-turvy.     The  animals  have  four 


30  PUBLIC   AND    PARLOR   READINGS. 

legs,  so  they  jump  on  two.  Ten  foot  square  of  rock  lets  for 
a  pound  a  month  ;  ten  acres  of  grass  for  a  shilling  a  year-. 
Roasted  at  Christmas,  shiver  o'  cold  on  midsummer-day. 
The  lakes  are  grass,  and  the  rivers  turn  their  backs  on  tho 
sea  and  run  into  the  heart  of  the  land  ;  and  the  men  vroidd 
stand  on  their  heads,  but  I  have  taken  a  thought,  and  I  've 
found  out  -why  they  don't." 

"  Why  1 " 

"  Because,  if  they  did,  their  heads  would  point  the  same 
way  a  man's  head  points  in  England." 

Tom  Eobinson  laughed,  and  told  George  he  admired  the 
country  for  these  very  traits.  "  Novelty  for  me  against  the 
world.  Who  'd  come  twelve  thousand  miles  to  see  nothino- 
we  could  n't  see  at  home  1  One  does  not  want  the  same  story 
always.     Where  are  we  going,  George  '1 " 

"0,  not  much  fiirther,  —  only  about  twelve  miles  from 
the  camp." 

"Where  to  1" 

"  To  a  farmer  I  know.  I  am  going  to  show  you  a  lark, 
Tom,"  said  George,  and  his  eyes  beamed  benevolence  on  his 
comrade. 

Robinson  stopped  dead  short.  "  George,"  said  he,  "  no ! 
don't  let  us.  I  would  rather  stay  at  home  and  read  my  book. 
You  can  go  into  temptation  and  come  out  pure;  I  can't.  I 
am  one  of  those  that  if  I  go  into  a  puddle  up  to  my  shoe,  I 
must  splash  up  to  my  middle." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  1" 

"  You  're  proposing  to  me  to  go  for  a  lark  on  the  Sabbath 
day." 

"  Why,  Tom,  am  I  the  man  to  tempt  you  to  do  evil  1 " 
asked  George,  hurt. 

"  Why,  no  !  but  you  proposed  a  lark." 

"  Ay,  but  an  innocent  one,  —  one  more  likely  to  lift  your 
heart  on  high  than  to  give  vou  ill  thouQ;hts." 

"  Well,  this  is  a  riddle ! "  and  Robinson  was  intensely 
puzzled. 

"  Carlo  !  "  cried  George,  suddenly,  "  come  here ;  I  will  not 


THE   LARK  IN  THE   GOLD-FIELDS.  31 

have  YOU  hunting  and  tormenting  those  Kangaroo  rats  to-day. 
Let  us  all  be  at  peace,  if  you  please.     Come,  to  heel." 

The  friends  strode  briskly  on,  and  a  little  after  eleven 
o'clock  they  came  upon  a  small  squatter's  house  and  prem- 
ises. "  Here  we  are,"  said  George,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with 
innocent  delight. 

The  house  was  thatched  and  whitewashed,  and  English  was 
written  on  it  and  on  every  foot  of  ground  around  it.  A  furze- 
bush  had  been  planted  by  the  door.  Vertical  oak  palings 
were  the  fence,  with  a  five-barred  gate  in  the  middle  of  them. 
From  the  little  plantation  all  the  magnificent  trees  and  shrubs 
of  Australia  had  been  excluded  Avith  amazing  resolution  and 
consistency,  and  oak  and  ash  reigned,  safe  from  over-towering 
rivals.  They  passed  to  the  back  of  the  house,  and  there 
George's  countenance  fell  a  little,*  for  on  the  oval  grass-plot 
and  gi-avel-walk  he  found  from  thirty  to  forty  rough  fellows 
most  of  them  diggers. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  he,  on  reflection,  "  we  could  not  expect 
to  have  it  all  to  ourselves,  and,  indeed,  it  would  be  a  sin  to 
wish  it,  you  know.  Now,  Tom,  come  this  way ;  here  it  is, 
hei'e  it  is,  —  there."  Tom  looked  up,  and  in  a  gigantic  cage 
was  a  light-brown  bird. 

He  was  utterly  confounded.  "  What !  is  it  this  we  came 
twelve  miles  to  see  % " 

"  Ay  !  and  twice  twelve  would  n't  "have  been  much  to 
me." 

"  Well,  and  now  where  is  the  lark  you  talked  of?  " 

"  This  is  it." 

"  This  %     This  is  a  bird." 

"  Well,  and  is  n't  a  lark  a  bird  % " 

"  Oh  !  ah,  I  see  !     Ha,  ha  !  ha,  ha  !  " 

Robinson's  merriment  w:as  interrupted  by  a  harsh  remon- 
strance from  several  of  the  diggers,  who  were  all  from  the 
other  end  of  the  camp. 

"  Hold  your  cackle  !  "  cried  one  ;  "  he  is  going  to  sing." 
And  the  whole  party  had  their  eyes  turned  with  expectation 
towards  the  bird. 


32  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Like  most  singers,  he  kept  them  waiting  a  bit;  But  at 
last,  just  at  noon,  when  the  mistress  of  the  house  had  war- 
ranted him  to  sing,  the  little  feathered  exile  began  as  it  were 
to  tune  his  pipes.  The  savage  men  gathered  roimd  the  cage 
that  moment,  and  amidst  a  dead  stillness  the  bii'd  uttered 
some  very  uncertain  chirps ;  but  after  a  while  he  seemed  to 
revive  his  memories,  and  call  his  ancient  cadences  back  to 
him  one  by  one,  and  string  them  sotto  voce. 

And  then  the  same  sun  that  had  warmed  his  little  heart 
at  home  came  glowing  down  on  him  here,  and  he  gave 
music  back  for  it  more  and  njore,  till  at  last,  amidst 
breathless  silence  and  glistening  eyes  of  the  rough  diggers 
hanging  on  his  voice,  outburst  in  that  distant  land  his 
English  song. 

It  swelled  his  little  throat,  and  gushed  from  him  with 
thrilling  force  and  plenty ;  and  every  time  he  checked  hia 
song  to  think  of  its  theme,  — the  green  meadows,  the  quiet- 
stealing  streams,  the  clover  he  first  soared  from,  and  the 
spring  he  loved  so  well,  —  a  loud  sigh  from  many  a  rough 
bosom,  many  a  wild  and  wicked  heart,  told  how  tight  the  lis' 
teners  had  held  their  breath  to  hear  him.  .And  whea  ho 
swelled  with  song  again,  and  poured  with  all  his  soul  the 
green  meadows,  the  quiet  brooks,  the  honey-clover,  and  the 
English  spring,  the  rugged  mouths  opened  and  so  stayed, 
and  the  shaggy  lips  trembled,  and  more  than  one  tear  trickled 
from  fierce,  unbridled  hearts  down  bronzed  and  rugged 
cheeks. 

Sweet  home  ! 

And  these  shaggy  men,  full  of  oaths  and  strife  and  cupidity, 
had  once  been  white-headed  boys,  and  most  of  them  had 
strolled  about  the  English  fields  with  little  sisters  and  little 
brothers,  and  seen  the  lark  rise  and  heard  him  sing  this  very 
song.  The  little  playmates  lay  in  the  chiarchyard,  and  they 
were  full  of  oaths  and  drink,  and  lusts  and  remorses,  but  no 
note  was  changed  in  this  immortal  song. 

And  so,  for  a  moment  or  two,  years  of  vice  rolled  away 
like  a  dark  cloud  from  the  memory,  and  the  past  shone  out 


THE   LAKK   IN    THE   GOLD-FIELDS.  'do 

in  the  song-shine  :  they  came  back  bright  as  the  immortal 
notes  that  lighted  them,  —  tliose  faded  pictures  and  those 
fleeted  days ;  the  cottage,  the  old  mother's  when  he  left  her 
without  one  grain  of  sorrow,  the  village  church  and  its  simple 
chimes,  —  ding-dong-bell,,  ding-dong-bell,  ding-dong-bell ;  the 
clover-field  hard  by,  in  which  he  lay  and  gambolled  while  the 
lai-k  praised  God  oyerhead ;  the  chubby  playmates  that  never 
grew  to  be  wicked ;  the  sweet,  sweet  hom's  of  youth,  inno- 
cence, and  home. 

George  stayed  till  the  lark  gave  up  singing  altogether,  and 
then  he  said,  "  Now  I  am  oft'.  I  don't  want  to  hear  bad  lan- 
guage after  that ;  let  us  take  the  lark's  chirp  home  to  bed 
with  us  "  ;  and  they  made  off".  And  true  it  was,  —  the  pm'O 
strains  dwelt  upon  their  spirits,  and  refreshed  and  purified 
these  sojom-ners  in  a  godless  place.  Meeting  these  two  figures 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  armed  each  with  a  double-baiTelled  gun 
and  a  revolver,  you  would  never  have  guessed  wdiat  gentle 
thoughts  possessed  them  wholly.  They  talked  less  than  they 
did  coming,  but  they  felt  so  quiet  and  happy. 

"  The  pretty  bird,"  puiTed  George  (seeing  him  by  the  ear), 
"  I  feel  after  him  —  there  —  as  if  I  had  just  come  out  o' 
church." 

"  So  do  I,  George ;  and  I  think  his  song  must  be  a  psalm, 
if  we  knew  all." 

"  That  it  is,  for  Heaven  taught  it  him.  We  must  try  and 
keep  all  this  in  oiu"  hearts  when  we  get  among  the  broken 
bottles  and  foul  language  and  gold,"  says  George.  "  How 
sweet  it  smells,  —  sweeter  than  before  !  " 

"  That  is  because  it  is  afternoon." 

"  Yes  !  or  along  of  the  music  ;  that  tune  was  a  breath 
from  home  that  makes  everything  please  me  now.  This  is 
the  first  Sunday  that  has  looked  and  smelled  and  sounded 
like  Sunday." 

"  George,  it  is  hard  to  believe  the  world  is  wicked  ;  every- 
thing seems  good  and  gentle,  and  at  peace  with  heaven  and 
earth." 

2*  c 


34  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


THE   LARK  IN   THE  GOLD-FIELDS. 

PAET   SECOND. CARLO. 

A  JET  of  smoke  issued  from  the  bush,  followed  by  the 
report  of  a  gun,  and  Carlo,  who  had  taken  advantage 
of  George's  revery  to  slip  on  ahead,  gave  a  sharp  howl,  and 
spun  round  upon  all  fours. 

"  The  scoundrels  !  "shrieked  Robinson.  And  in  a  moment 
his  gun  was  at  his  shoulder,  and  he  fired  both  barrels  slap 
into  the  spot  whence  the  smoke  had  issued. 

Both  the  men  dashed  up  and  sprang  into  the  bush,  revolver 
in  hand,  but  ere  they  could  reach  it  the  dastard  had  run ; 
and  the  scrub  was  so  thick,  pursuit  was  hopeless.  The  men 
returned,  full  of  anxiety  for  Carlo. 

The  dog  met  them,  his  tail  between  his  legs ;  but  at  sight 
of  George  he  wagged  his  tail,  and  came  to  him  and  licked 
George's  hand,  and  walked  on  wdth  them,  licking  George's 
hand  every  now  and  then. 

"  LooV,  Tom  !  he  is  as  sensible  as  a  Christian.  He  knows 
the  shot  was  meant  for  him,  though  they  didn't  hit  him." 

By  this  time  the  men  had  got  out  of  the  wood  and  pursued 
their  road,  but  not  with  tranquil  hearts.  Sunday  ended  with 
the  noise  of  that  coward's  gun.  They  walked  on  hastily, 
guns  ready,  fingers  on  the  trigger  at  war.  Suddenly  Robin- 
son looked  back  and  stopped,  and  drew  George's  attention  to 
Carlo.  He  was  standing  with  all  his  four  legs  wide  apart, 
like  a  statue.  Geoi'ge  called  him ;  he  came  directly  and  was 
for  licking  George's  hand,  but  George  pulled  him  about  and 
examined  him  all  over. 

"  I  wish  they  may  not  have  hurt  him,  after  all,  the  butch- 
ers ;  —  they  have,  too  !  See  here,  Tom  !  here  is  one  streak 
of  blood  on  his  belly ;  nothing  to  hui't,  though,  I  do  hope. 
Never  mind.  Carlo  !  "  cried  George  ;  "it  is  onl}^  a  single  shot, 
by  what  I  can  see.  'T  is  n't  like  when  Will  put  the  whole 
charge  into  you,  rabbit-shooting,  —  is  it.  Carlo  1  No,  says  he  ; 
we  don't  care  for  this,  —  do  we,  Carlo  1 "  cried  George,  rather 
boisterously. 


THE   LARK   IN   THE    GOLD-FIELDS.  35 

"  Make  him  go  into  that  pool  there,"  said  Robinson  ;  "then 
he  won't  have  a  fever." 

''  I  will.  Here,  —  cess  !  cess  !  "  He  thren'  a  stone  into 
the  pool  of  -water  that  lay  a  little  off  the  road,  and  Carlo 
went  in  after  it  without  hesitation,  though  not  with  his  usual 
alacrity.  After  an  unsuccessfvd  attempt  to  recover  the  stone, 
he  swam  out  lower  down,  and  came  back  to  the  men,  and 
wagged  his  tail  slowly  and  walked  behind  George. 

They  went  on. 

"  Tom,"  said  George,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Don't  like  what  ? " 

"  He  never  so  much  as  shook  himself" 

"  What  of  that "?     He  did  shake  himself,  I  should  say." 

"  Not  as  shoiild  be.  \Yho  ever  saw  a  doa;  come  out  of  tho 
water  and  not  shake  himself  1  Carlo  !  hie.  Carlo  !  "  and 
George  threw  a  stone  along  the  ground.  Carlo  trotted  after 
it,  but  his  hmbs  seemed  to  work  stiffly  ;  the  stone  spun  round 
a  sharp  corner  in  the  road,  —  the  dog  followed  it. 

"  He  will  do  now,"  said  Robinson. 

They  walked  briskly  on.  On  tui-ning  the  corner  they  found 
Carlo  sitting  up  and  shivering,  with  the  stone  between  his 
paws. 

"  We  must  not  let  him  sit,"  said  Tom  ;  "  keep  his  blood 
warm.  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  have  sent  him  into  the 
water." 

"  I  don't  know,"  muttered  George,  gloomily.  "Carlo!" 
cried  he,  cheerfully,  "don't  you  be  down-hearted ;  there  ia 
nothing  so  bad  as  faint-heartedness  for  man  or  beast.  Come, 
up  and  away  yc  go,  and  shake  it  off  like  a  man  !  " 

Carlo  got  up  and  wagged  his  tail  in  answer,  but  he  evi- 
dently was  in  no  mood  for  running ;  he  followed  languidly 
behind. 

"Let  us  get  home,"  said  Robinson ;  "  there  is  an  old  pal  of 
mine  that  is  clever  about  dogs  ;  he  will  cut  the  shot  out,  if 
there  is  one  in  him,  and  give  him  some  physic." 

The  men  strode  on,  and  each,  to  hide  his  own  uneasiness, 
chatted  about  other  matters ;  but,  all  of  a  sudden,  Robinson 


36.         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

cried  out,  "  Why,  where  is  the  dog  1 "  They  looked  back, 
and  there  was  Carlo  some  sixty  yards  in  the  rear,  but  he  was 
not  sitting  this  time,  — he  Avas  lying  on  his  belly. 

"  0,  this  is  a  bad  job  !  "  cried  George.  The  men  ran  up,  in 
real  alarm ;  Carlo  wagged  his  tail  as  soon  as  they  came  near 
him,  but  he  did  not  get  up. 

"  Carlo  !  "  cried  George,  despairingly,  "  you  would  n't  do  it, 
you  could  n't  think  to  do  it !  0  my  dear  Carlo !  it  is 
only  making  up  your  mind  to  live ;  keep  up  your  heart,  old 
fellow,  —  don't  go  to  leave  us  alone  among  these  villains. 
My  poor,  dear,  darling  dog!  0  no !  he  won't  live,  —  he 
can't  live  !  See  how  dull  his  poor,  dear  eye  is  getting.  0 
Carlo,  Carlo  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  his  master's  voice  in  such  distress,  Carlo 
whimpered,  and  then  he  began  to  stretch  his  limbs  out.  At 
the  sight  of  this,  Robinson  cried  hastily,  — 

"Rub  him,  George !  We  did  wrong  to  send  him  into  the 
water." 

George  rubbed  him  all  over.  After  rubbing  him  awhile,  he 
said,  — 

"  Tom,  I  seem  to  feel  him  tui'ning  to  dead  under  my 
hand." 

George's  hand,  in  rubbing  Carlo,  came  round  to  the  dog's 
shoulder ;  then  Carlo  turned  his  head,  and  for  the  third  time 
began  to  lick  George's  hand.  George  let  him  lick  his  hand 
and  gave  up  rubbing,  for  where  was  the  use  1  Carlo  never 
left  off  licking  his  hand,  but  feebly,  very  feebly,  —  more  and 
more  feebly. 

Presently,  even  while  he  was  licking  his  hand,  the  poor 
thing's  teeth  closed  slowly  on  his  loving  tongue,  and  then  he 
could  lick  the  beloved  hand  no  more.  Breatli  fluttered  about 
his  body  a  little  while  longer ;  but  in  truth  he  had  ceased  to 
live  w^hen  he  could  no  longer  kiss  his  master's  hand. 

The  poor  single-hearted  soul  was  gone. 

George  took  it  up  tenderly  in  his  arms.  Robinson  made 
an  effort  to  console  him. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,   Tom,   if  you  please,"  said  George, 


THE   LAEK  IN   THE   GOLD-FIELDS.  37 

gently  but  quickly.     He  carried  it  home  silently,  and  laid  it 
silently  down  in  a  corner  of  the  tent. 

Robinson  made  a  fire  and  put  some  steaks  on,  and  made 
George  slice  some  potatoes,  to  keep  him  from  looking  always 
at  what  so  little  while  since  was  Carlo.  Then  they  sat  down 
silently  and  gloomily  to  dinner ;  it  was  long  past  their  usual 
hour,  and  they  were  working  men.  Until  we  die  we  dine, 
come  what  may.  The  first  part  of  the  meal  passed  in  deep 
silence.     Then  Robinson  said  sadly,  — 

"  We  will  go  home,  George.  I  fall  into  your  wishes  now. 
Gold  can't  pay  for  what  we  go  through  in  this  hellish  place." 

"  Not  it,"  replied  George,  quietly. 

"  We  are  surrounded  by  enemies." 

"  Seems  so,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  very  languid  tone. 

"  Labor  by  diiy  and  danger  by  night." 

"  Ay  1 "  but  in  a  most  indifferent  tone. 

"  And  no  Sabbath  for  us  two." 

"  No." 

"  I  '11  do  my  best  for  you,  and  when  we  have  five  hundred 
pounds,  you  shall  go  home." 

"  Thank  you.  He  was  a  good  friend  to  us  that  lies  there 
under  my  coat;  he  used  to  lie  over  it,  and  then  who  dare 
touch  it]" 

"  No  !  but  don't  give  way  to  that,  George  ;  do  eat  a  bit,  —  ■ 
it  will  do  you  good." 

"  I  will,  Tom,  —  I  will.  Thank  you  kindly.  Ah  !  now  I 
see  why  he  came  to  me  and  kept  licking  my  hand  so  the 
moment  he  got  the  hurt.  He'  had  more  sense  than  we  had, 
—  he  knew  he  and  I  were  to  part  that  hour ;  and  I  tormented 
his  last  minutes  sending  him  into  the  water  and  after  stones, 
when  the  poor  thing  wanted  to  be  bidding  me  good  by  all  the 
while.  0  dear  !  0  dear ! "  and  George  pushed  his  scarce- 
tasted  dinner  from  him,  and  left  the  tent  hurriedly,  his  eyes 
thick  with  tears. 

Thus  ended  this  human  day  so  happily  begun  ;  and  thus 
the  poor  dog  paid  the  price  of  fidelity  this  Sunday  afternoon. 

Siste  viator  iter  and  part  with  poor  Carlo,  for  whom  there 


156475 


38  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

are  now  no  more  little  passing  troubles,  no  more  little  simple 
joys.  His  duty  is  jDerformed,  his  race  is  run ;  peace  be  to 
him,  and  to  all  simple  and  devoted  hearts !  Ah  me  !  how 
rare  they  are  among  men  ! 


THE  FACE  AGAINST  THE  PANE.— T.  B.  Aldrich, 

MABEL,  little  Mabel, 
With  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night 
And  sees  the  Beacon  Light 

A-trembling  in  the  rain. 
She  hears  the  sea-birds  screech, 
And  the  breakers  on  the  beach 

Making  moan,  making  moan. 
And  the  wind  about  the  eaves 
Of  the  cottage  sobs  and  grieves ; 

And  the  willow-tree  is  blown 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 
Till  it  seems  like  some  old  ci'one 
Standing  out  there  all  alone. 

With  her  woe  ! 
Wringing,  as  she  stands, 
Her  gaunt  and  palsied  hands. 
While  Mabel,  timid  Mabel, 

With  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night, 
And  sees  the  Beacon  Light 

A-trembling  in  the  rain. 

Set  the  table,  maiden  Mabel, 

And  make  the  cabin  warm ; 
Your  little  fisher-lover 

Is  out  there  in  the  storm, 
And  your  father  —  you  are  weeping  ! 


THE  FACE  AGAINST  THE  PANE.  39 

0  Mabel,  timid  Mabel,    • 

Go,  spread  the  supper-table, 
And  set  the  tea  a  steeping. 
Your  lover's  heart  is  brave, 

His  boat  is  staunch  and  tight ; 
And  your  father  knows  the  perilous  reef 

That  makes  the  water  white. 
—  But  Mabel,  Mabel  darling. 

With  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night 

At  the  Beacon  in  the  rain. 

The  heavens  are  veined  with  fire  I 

And  the  thunder,  how  it  rolls  1 
In  the  lullings  of  the  storm 

The  solemn  church-bell  tolls 

For  lost  souls  ! 
But  no  sexton  sounds  the  knell 

In  that  belfry  old  and  high ; 
Unseen  fingers  sway  the  bell 

As  the  wind  goes  tearing  by  ! 
How  it  tolls  for  the  souls 

Of  the  sailors  on  the  sea ! 
God  pity  them,  God  pity  them, 

Wherever  they  may  be  ! 
God  pity  wives  and  sweethearts 

Who  wait  and  wait  in  vain ! 
And  pity  little  Mabel, 

With  face  against  the  pane. 

A  boom  !  —  the  Lighthouse  gun  ! 

(How  its  echo  rolls  and  rolls  ! ) 
'T  is  to  warn  the  home-bound  ships 

Off  the  shoals ! 
See  !  a  rocket  cleaves  the  sky 

From  the  Fort,  —  a  shaft  of  light  1 
See  !  it  fades,  and,  fading,  leaves 


40  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Golden  furrows  on  the  night  ! 
What  made  Mabel's  cheek  so  pale  1 

What  made  Mabel's  lips  so  white  1 
Did  she  see  the  helpless  sail 

That,  tossing  here  and  there, 

Like  a  feather  in  the  air, 
Went  down  and  out  of  sight  ] 
Down,  down,  and  out  of  sight ! 
0,  watch  no  more,  no  more, 

With  face  against  the  pane ; 
You  cannot  see  the  men  that  drown 

By  the  Beacon  in  the  rain  ! 

From  a  shoal  of  richest  rubies 

Breaks  the  morning  clear  and  cold  j 
And  the  angel  on  the  village  spire, 

Frost-touched,  is  bright  as  gold. 
Four  ancient  fishermen. 

In  the  pleasant  autumn  air, 
Come  toiling  up  the  sands. 
With  something  in  their  hands,  — ■ 
Two  bodies  stark  and  white. 
Ah,  so  ghastly  in  the  light, 

With  sea-weed  in  their  hair  ! 
0  ancient  fishermen. 

Go  up  to  yonder  cot  ! 
You  '11  find  a  little  child. 

With  face  against  the  pane, 
Who  looks  toward  the  beach, 

And,  looking,  sees  it  not. 
She  will  never  watch  again  ! 

Never  watch  and  weep  at  night ! 
For  those  pretty,  saintly  eyes 
Look  beyond  the  stormy  skies, 

And  they  see  the  Beacon  Light. 


THE   LOVER   AND   BIRDS.  41 


THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS. —Wm.  Allingham. 

WITHIN  a  budding  grove, 
In  April's  ear  sang  every  bird  his  best ; 
But  not  a  song  to  pleasure  my  unrest,' 
Or  touch  the  tears  unwept  of  bitter  love. 
Some  spake,  methought,  with  pity ;  some  as  if  in  jest. 
To  every  word 
>  Of  every  bird 
I  listened,  and  replied  as  it  behove. 

Screamed  Chaffinch,  "  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 
0,  bring  my  pretty  love  to  meet  me  here  !  " 
"  Chaffinch,"  quoth  I,  "  be  dumb  awhile,  in  fear 
Thy  darling  prove  no  better  than  a  cheat ; 
And  never  come,  or  fly  when  wintry  days  appear." 
Yet  from  a  twig, 
With  voice  so  big, 
The  little  fowl  his  utterance  did  repeat. 

Then  I :  "  The  man  forlorn 
Hears  earth  send  up  a  foolish  noise  aloft." 
*'  And  what  '11  he  do  %  what  '11  he  do  %  "  scoffed 
The  Blackbird,  standing  in  an  ancient  thorn, 
Then  spread  his  sooty  wings  and  flitted  to  the  croft, 
With  cacklino;  laugh  : 
Whom  I,  being  half 
Enraged,  called  after,  giving  back  his  scorn. 

Worse  mocked  the  Thrush  :  "  Die  !  die  ! 
0,  could  he  do  it  %  could  he  do  it  %     Nay  ! 
Be  quick  !  be  quick  !     Here,  here,  hei'e  !  "  went  his  lay. 
"Take  heed!   take  heed!"    Then,  "Why?  why  1  whyl 
why  %  why  % 
See-ee  now  !  see-ee  now  !  "  he  drawled.    "  Back  !  back  !  back  ! 
R-r-r-run  away  ! " 


42  PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

0  Thrush,  be  still ! 
Or,  at  thy  will, 
Seek  some  less  sad  interpreter  than  I ! 

"  Air,  air  !  blue  air  and  white  ! 
Whither  I  flee,  whither,  0  whither,  0  whither  I  flee ! " 
Thus  the  Lark  hurried,  mounting  from  the  lea. 
"  Hills,  countries,  many  waters  glittering  bright, 
Whither  I  see,  whither  I  see  !  deeper,  deeper,  deeper !  whither 
I  see,  see,  see  !  " 

"  Gay  Lark,"  I  said, 
"  The  song  that 's  bred 
In  happy  nest  may  well  to  heaven  make  flight." 

"  There's  something,  something  sad, 
I  half  remember,"  piped  a  broken  strain. 
Well  sung,  sweet  Robin  !     Robin  sung  again  : 
" Spring's  opening  cheerily,  cheerily  !  be  we  glad  !  " 
Which  moved,  I  wist  not  why,  me  melancholy  mad, 
Till  now,  grown  meek. 
With  wetted  cheek, 
Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I  had. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE.— Jean  Ingelow. 

THE  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before. 

Good  ringers  ;  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he. 
"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  0  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells,  — 
Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  ! '  " 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore  ; 

My  thread  bi'ake  off",  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  4 


o 


The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth,  — 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 


"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  callins; 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
Faintly  came  her  milking-song. 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
**  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot ;  come  uppe,  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow,  — 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot ;  come  uppe,  Lightfoot ; 

Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed," 

AUe  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 
Save  where,  full  fyve  good  miles  away. 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene ; 
And  lo  !  the  great  bell  faire  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country-side, 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 


44  PUBLIC  AND   PAELOK  EEADINGS. 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  Sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main ;  , 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on,  I 

Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  "  ^ 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne  'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea-wall  (he  cried)  is  downe ; 

"  The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  1 " 

"Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away, 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long  ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play, 

Afar  I  heard  her  milking-song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  —  "  Ho,  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast  j 

For  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud,  — 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat 
Before  a  shallow,  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  our  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  45 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon-light 

Stream  fi'om  the  church-tower,  red  and  high,  — 
A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 
And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 
That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  gviide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ', 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  0,  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

0,  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth  !  " 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  1 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare ; 

The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 
Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 

Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 

The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 

Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  many  more  than  myne  and  me  : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith), 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 

By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

«  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  ! "  calling, 


46  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
Where  the  water,  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver; 

Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 

Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 

To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore. 

Abridged. 


SANDALPHON,    THE    ANGEL    OF    PEAYER. 
H.  W.  Longfellow. 

HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  legends  the  Rabbins  have  told, 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air  ? 
Have  you  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  1 

How,  erect  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered, 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  % 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 


SANDALPHON,  THE  AXGEL  OF  PRAYER.       47 

"With  the  song's  irresistible  stress,  — 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  liarp-strings  are  broken  asunder, 

By  the  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng. 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening,  breathless, 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below,  — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore. 

In  the  frenzy  and  passion  of  prayer,  — 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weai'y  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands. 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal, 

Is  wafted  the  fragi-ance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition. 
The  beautiful  strange  superstition. 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night. 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars  ;  — 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 


48  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 
His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


'BIAH   CATHCART'S   PROPOSAL.  —  H.  W.  Beecher. 

THEY  were  walking  silently  and  gravely  home  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  under  the  tall  elms  that  lined  the  street  for 
half  a  mile.  Neither  had  spoken.  There  had  been  some  little 
parish  quarrel,  and  on  that  afternoon  the  text  was,  "  A  new 
commandment  I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another." 
But  after  the  sermon  was  done  the  text  was  the  best  part  of 
it.  Some  one  said  that  Parson  Marsh's  sermons  were  like  the 
meeting-house,  —  the  steeple  was  the  only  thing  that  folks 
could  see  after  they  got  home. 

They  walked  slowly,  without  a  word.  Once  or  twice  'Biah 
essayed  to  speak,  but  was  still  silent.  He  plucked  a  flower 
from  between  the  pickets  of  the  fence,  and  unconsciously 
pi;lled  it  to  pieces,  as,  with  a  troubled  face,  he  glanced  at 
Rachel,  and  then,  as  fearing  she  would  catch  his  eye,  he 
looked  at  the  trees,  at  the  clouds,  at  the  grass,  at  everything, 
and  saw  nothing, —  nothing  but  Rachel.  The  most  solemn 
hour  of  human  experience  is  not  that  of  Death,  but  of  Life, — 
when  the  heart  is  born  again,  and  from  a  natural  heart  be- 
comes a  heart  of  Love  !  What  wonder  that  it  is  a  silent  hou.r 
and  perplexed  1 

Is  the  soul  confused  1  Why  not,  when  the  divine  Spirit, 
rolling  clear  across  the  aerial  ocean,  breaks  upon  the  heart's 
shore  with  all  the  mystery  of  heaven  1     Is   it  strange  that 


'BIAH  CATHCART'S  TROPOSAL.  49 

uncertain  lights  dim  the  eje,  if  above  the  head  of  him  that 
truly  loves  hover  clouds  of  saintly  spirits  1  Why  should  not 
the  tongue  stammer  and  refuse  its  accustomed  offices,  when 
all  the  world  —  skies,  trees,  plains,  hills,  atmosphere,  and  the 
solid  earth  —  springs  forth  in  new  colors,  with  strange  m(?an- 
ing-s,  and  seems  to  chant  for  the  soul  the  glory  of  that  mystic 
Law  with  which  God  has  bound  to  himself  his  infinite  realm, 
—  the  law  of  Love  ?  Then,  for  the  first  time,  when  one  so 
loves  that  love  is  sacrifice,  death  to  self,  resurrection,  and 
glory,  is  man  brought  into  hannony  with  the  whole  universe  ; 
and,  like  him  who  beheld  the  seventh  heaven,  hears  things 
unlawful  to  be  uttered. 

The  gi-eat  elm-trees  sighed  as  the  fitful  breeze  swept 
their  tops.  The  soft  shadows  flitted  back  and  forth  beneath 
the  walker's  feet,  fell  upon  them  in  light  and  dark,  ran  over 
the  ground,  quivered  and  shook,  until 'sober  Cathcart  thought 
that  his  heart  was  throwing  its  shifting  network  of  hope  and 
fear  along  the  ground  before  him  ! 

How  strangely  his  voice  sounded  to  him,  as,  at  length,  all 
his  emotions  could  only  say,  "  Rachel, —  how  did  you  like  the 
sermon  ] " 

Quietly  she  answered,  — 

"  I  liked  the  text."  '  • 

"  '  A  new  commandment  I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one 
another.'     Rachel,  will  you  help  me  keep  it  1 " 

At  first  she  looked  down  and  lost  a  little  color ;  then,  rais- 
ing her  face,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large  eyes,  with  a  look 
•  both  clear  and  tender.  It  was  as  if  some  painful  restraint 
had  given  way,  and  her  eyes  blossomed  into  full  beauty. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  They  walked  home  hand 
in  hand.  He  neither  smiled  nor  exulted.  He  saw  neither  the 
trees,  nor  the  long  level  rays  of  sunlight  that  were  slanting 
across  the  fields.  His  soul  was  overshadowed  with  a  cloud  as 
if  God  were  drawing  near.  He  had  never  felt  so  solemn. 
This  woman's  life  had  been  intrusted  to  him  ! 

Long  years,  — the  whole  length  of  life,  — ^^the  eternal  years 
beyond,  seemed .  in  an  indistinct  way  to  rise  up  in  his  imagi- 


50  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOE  READINGS. 

nation.  All  that  he  could  say,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door, 
was,  — 

"  Rachel,  this  is  forever  —  forever." 

She  again  said  nothing,  but  turned  to  him  with  a  clear  and 
open  face,  in  which  joy  and  trust  wrought  beauty.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  a  light  fell  upon  him  from  her  eyes.  There  was 
a  look  that  descended  and  covered  him  as  with  an  atmosphere  ; 
and  all  the  way  home  he  was  as  one  walking  in  a  luminous 
cloud.  He  had  never  felt  such  personal  dignity  as  now.  He 
that  wins  such  love  is  crowned,  and  may  call  himself  king. 
He  did  not  feel  the  earth  under  his  feet.  As  he  drew  near  his 
lodgings,  the  sun  went  down.  The  children  began  to  pour 
forth,  no  longer  restrained.  Abiah  turned  to  his  evening 
chores.  No  animal  that  night  but  had  reason  to  bless  him. 
The  children  found  him  unusually  good  and  tender.  And 
Aunt  Keziah  said  to  her  sister,  — 

"  Abiah 's  been  goin'  to  meetin'  very. regular  for  some  weeks, 
and  I  should  n't  wonder,  by  the  way  he  looks,  if  he  had  got  a 
hope.     I  trust  he  ain't  deceivin'  himself." 

He  had  a  hope,  and  he  was  not  deceived ;  for  in  a  few 
months,  at  the  close  of  the  service  one  Sunday  morning,  the 
minister  read  from  the  pulpit :  "  Marriage  is  intended  between 
Abiah  Cathcart  and  Rachel  Liscomb,  both  of  this  town,  and 
this  is  the  first  publishing  of  the  banns." 


LANGLEY  LANE. —  Robert  Buchanan. 

IN  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down. 
Is  there  ever  a  place  so  pleasant  and  sweet 
As  Langley  Lane  in  London  town,  ' 

Just  out  of  the  bustle  of  square  and  street  1 
-Little  white  cottages  all  in  a  row. 
Gardens  where  bachelors-buttons  grow, 

Swallows' -nests  in  roof  and  wall, 
And  up  above  the  still  blue  sky 


LAXGLEY   LANE.  51 

Where  the  woolly  white  clouds  go  sailing  by,  — 
I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  it  all ! 

For  now,  in  summer,  I  take  my  chair, 

And  sit  outside  in  the  sun,  and  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  street  and  square. 

And  the  swallows  and  span'ows  chirping  near  ; 
And  Fanny,  who  Uves  just  over  the  way, 
Comes  running  many  a  time  each  da}^ 

With  her  little  hand's  touch  so  warm  and  kind, 
And  I  smile  and  talk,  with  the  sun  on  my  cheek. 
And  the  little  live  hand  seems* to  stir  and  speak,  — 

For  Fanny  is  dumb  and  I  am  blind. 

Fanny  is  sweet  thii'teen,  and  she 

Has  fine  black  ringlets  and  dark  eyes  clear,  . 
And  I  am  older  by  summers  three,  — 

Why  should  we  hold  one  another  so  dear  ? 
Because  she  cannot  utter  a  word. 
Nor  hear  the  music  of  bee  or  bird, 

The  water-cart's  splash  or  the  milkman's  call ! 
Because  I  have  never  seen  the  sky, 
Nor  the  little  singers  that  hum  and  fly, 

Yet  know  she  is  gazing  upon  them  all ! 

For  the  sun  is  shining,  the  swallows  fly, 

The  bees  and  the  blue-flies  murmur  low, 
And  I  hear  the  water-cart  go  by. 

With  its  cool  splash-splash  down  the  dusty  row; 
And  the  little  one  close  at  my  side  perceives 
Mine  eyes  upraised  to  the  cottage  eaves. 

Where  birds  are  chirping  in  summer  shine, 
And  I  hear,  though  I  cannot  look,  and  she. 
Though  she  cannot  hear,  can  the  singers  see,  — 

And  the  little  soft  fingers  flutter  in  mine  ! 


■"o"- 


Hath  not  the  dear  little  hand  a  tongue. 

When  it  stirs  on  my  palm  for  the  love  of  mel 


52  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Do  I  not  know  she  is  pretty  and  young  1 

Hath  not  my  soul  an  eye  to  see  1 
'T  is  pleasure  to  make  one's  bosom  stir, 
•   To  wonder  how  things  appear  to  her, 

That  I  only  heai-  as  they  pass  around  ; 
And  as  long  as  we  sit  in  the  music  and  light, 
She  is  happy  to  keep  God's  sight, 

And  /  am  happy  to  keep  God's  sound. 

Why,  I  know  her  face,  though  I  am  blind,  — 

I  made  it  of  music  long  ago,  — 
Strange  large  eyes  and  dark  hair  twined 

Round  the  pensive  light  of  a  brow  of  snow ; 
And  when  I  sit  by  my  little  one, 
And  hold  her  hand  and  talk  in  the  sun, 

And  hear  the  music  that  haunts  the  place, 
I  know  she  is  "raising  her  eyes  to  me. 
And  guessing  how  gentle  my  voice  must  be, 

And  seeing  the  music  upon  my  face. 

Though,  if  ever  the  Lord  should  grant  me  a  prayer^ 

(I  know  the  fancy  is  only  vain,) 
I  should  pray  just  once,  when  the  weather  is  fair. 

To  see  little  Fanny  and  Langley  Lane  ; 
Though  Fanny,  perhaps,  would  pray  to  hear 
The  voice  of  the  friend  that  she  holds  so  dear. 

The  song  of  the  birds,  the  hum  of  the  street. 
It  is  better  to  be  as  we  have  been,  — 
Each  keeping  up  something,  unheard,  unseen, 

To  make  God's  heaven  more  strange  and  sweet  I 

Ah,  life  is  pleasant  in  Langley  Lane  ! 

There  is  always  something  sweet  to  hear ! 
Chirping  of  birds  or  patter  of  rain  ! 

And  Fanny,  my  little  one,  always  near  ! 
And  though  I  am  weakly  and  can't  live  long. 
And  Fanny  my  darling  is  far  from  strong, 


AT   THE   GRINDSTONE.  53 

And  though  we  can  never  married  be, 
What  then,  since  we  hold  one  another  so  dear, 
For  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  one  cannot  hear, 

And  the  pleasure  that  only  one  can  see  1 


AT  THE  GRINDSTONE ;  OR,  A  HOME  VIEW  OF  THE 
BATTLE-FIELD.  —  Robert  Buchanan. 

GRIND,  Billie,  grind  !     And  so  the  war  's  begun  1 
Flash,  bayonets !  cannons,  call !  dash  down  their  pride ! 
If  I  was  younger,  I  would  gi'ip  a  gun. 

And  die  a-field,  as  better  men  have  died ; 
I  'd  face  three  Frenchmen,  lad,  and  feel  no  fear, 
With  this  old  knife  that  we  are  gi'inding  here  ! 

Why,  I  'm  a  kind  of  radical,  and  saw 

Some  fighting  in  the  riots  long  ago  ; 
But,  Lord,  am  I  the  sort  of  chap  to  draw 

A  sword  against  old  Mother  England  ]     No  ! 
England  for  me,  with  all  her  errors,  still,  — 
I  hate  them  foreigners  and  always  will ! 

There  was  our  Johnnie,  now  !  —  as  kind  a  lad 

As  ever  grew  in  England  ;  fresh  and  fair  ! 
To  see  him  in  his  regimentals  clad, 

With'  honest,  rosy  cheeks  and  yellow  hair, 
Was  something,  Billy,  worthy  to  be  seen ; 
But  Johnnie 's  gone,  —  murdered  at  seventeen. 

None  of  your  fighting  sort,  but  mild  and  shy, 

Soft-hearted,  full  of  wench-like  tenderness, 
Without  the  heart,  indeed,  to  hurt  a  fly, 

But  fond,  you  see,  of  music  and  of  dress  ; 
We  could  not  hold  him  in,  dear  lad,  and  so 
He  heard  the  fife,  and  would  a-soldiering  go. 


54         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

And  it  was  pleasant,  for  a  time  to  see 

Johnnie,  our  little  diiimmer,  go  and  come, 

Holding  his  head  up,  proudly,  merrily, 

Happy  with  coat  o'  red,  and  hat,  and  drum. 

That  was  in  peace ;  but  war  broke  out  one  day, 

And  Johnnie's  regiment  was  called  away. 

He  went !  he  went  !  he  coiild  not  choose  but  go ! 

And  me  and  my  old  woman  wearied  here  : 
We  knew  that  men  must  fall  and  blood  must  flow, 

But  still  had  many  a  thought  to  lighten  fear ; 
Those  Russian  men  could  never  be  so  bad 
As  kill  or  harm  so  very  small  a  lad,  — 

A  lad  that  should  have  been  at  school  or  play  ! 

A  little  baby  in  a  coat  o'  red  ! 
What  !  touch  our  Johnnie  1     No,  not  they  ! 

Why,  they  had  little  ones  themselves,  we  said. 
Billie,  the  little  lad  we  loved  so  well 
Was  slain  among  the  very  first  that  fell ! 

Mark  that !     A  bullet  from  a  murderous  gun 
Singled  him  out,  and  struck  him  to  the  brain; 

He  fell,  —  our  boy,  our  joy,  our  little  one,  — 
His  bright  hair  dark  with  many  a  stain. 

His  clammy  hands  clenched  tight,  his  eyes  o'  browt* 

Looking  through  smoke  and  fire  to  Stamford  town. 

What !  call  that  war  !  to. slay  a  helpless  child 
Who  never,  never  hurt  a  living  thing ! 

Butchered,  for  what  we  know,  too,  while  he  smiled 
On  the  strange  light  all  round  him,  wondering  ! 

Grind,  Billie,  grind  !  call,  cannons  !  bayonets  thrust  1 

Would  we  were  grinding  all  our  foes  to  dust ! 

Bah  !  Frenchman,  Turk,  or  Russian,. —  all  alike! 
All  eaten  up  with  slaughter,  sin,  and  slavery  ! 


THE   PILOT.  55 

Little  care  they  what  harmless  hearts  they  strike,  — 

They  murder  little  lads,  aud  call  it  bravery  ! 
Down  with  them  when  they  cross  our  path,  I  say ; 
Give  me  old  England's  manhood  and  fair  play  ! 


THE  PILOT.  —J.  B.  GouGH. 

JOHX  i\LlYNARD  was  well  known  in  the  lake  district  as 
a  God-fearing,  honest,  and  intelligent  man.  He  was 
pilot  on  a  steamboat  from  Detroit  to  Buftalo.  One  summer 
afternoon  —  at  that  time  those  steamers  seldom  carried  boats 
—  smoke  was  seen  ascending  from  below,  and  the  captain 
called  out,  "  Simpson,  go  below  and  see  what  the  matter  is 
down  there." 

Simpson  came  up  with  his  face  pale  as  ashes,  and  said, 
"  Captain,  the  ship  is  on  fire." 

Then  "  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  ! "  on  shipboard. 

All  hands  were  called  up,-  buckets  of  water  were  dashed 
on  the  fire,  but  in  vain.  •  There  were  large  quantities  of  rosin 
and  tar  on  board,  and  it  was  found  useless  to  attempt  to 
save  the  ship.  The  passengers  rushed  forward  and  inquired 
of  the  pilot,  "  How  far  are  we  from  BuflFalo  1 " 

"  Seven  miles." 

"  How  long  before  we  can  reach  there  1" 

"  Three  quarters  of  an  hour,  at  our  present  rate  of  steam." 

"  Is  there  any  danger  1 " 

"  Danger  !  Here,  see  the  smoke  bursting  out,  —  go  forward 
if  you  would  save  your  lives." 

Passengers  and  crew  —  men,  women,  and  children  — 
crowded  the  forward  part  of  the  ship.  John  Maynard  stood 
at  the  helm.  The  flames  burst  forth  in  a  sheet  of  fire; 
clouds  of  smoke  arose. 

The  captain  cried  out  through  his  tx'umpet,  "John  May- 
nard ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir  !  " 


56  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  Are  you  at  the  helm  1 " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir  !  " 

"  How  does  she  head  1" 

*'  Southeast  by  east,  sir." 

"Head  her  southeast,  and  run  her  on  shore,"  said  the 
captain.  Nearer,  nearer,  yet  nearer,  she  approached  the 
shore.     Again  the  captain  cried  out,  "  John  Maynard  !  " 

The  response  came  feebly  this  time,  "Ay,  ay,  sir  !  " 

"  Can  you  hold  on  five  minutes  longer,  John  1 "  he  said. 

•"  By  God's  help,  I  will." 

The  old  man's  hair  was  scorched  from  the  scalp,  one  hand 
disabled ;  —  his  knee  upon  the  stanchion,  and  his  teeth 
set,  with  his  other  hand  upon  the  wheel,  he  stood  firm  as  a 
rock.  He  beached  the  ship  ;  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
was  saved,  as  John  Maynard  dropped,  and  his  spirit  took  its 
flight  to  God. 


WAINAMOINEN'S   SOWING.  —  From  the  Finnish. 

TRANSLATED   BY  JOHN   A.  PORTKR,   M.  D. 

ALL  the  ocean  isles  and  islets  H 

Had  been  duly  made  and  fashioned  ; 
All  the  ocean  reefs  and  ledges 

Had  been  duly  wrought  and  founded ;  '     , 

All  the  shining  silver  pillars  |  | 

Of  the  firmament  uplifted. 
And  the  hills  with  crystals  sprinkled, 
And  the  highlands  water-channelled  ; 
All  the  prairies  had  been  levelled, 
.    And  the  meadows  wide  unfolded. 

Then  at  last  in  lapse  of  ages, 
By  the  will  of  mighty  Ukko, 
Ukko,  mighty  Lord  above  us, 
To  the  world  was  born  a  minstrel. 


WAINAilOINEN'S  SOWING.  57 

Finland's  mighty  sage  and  singer, 
Wise  and  prudent  Wainamoinen, 
Of  a  goddess  fair  descended, 
Daughtei*  of  the  air  and  ocean. 

Full  of  glory  grew  the  forest, 
Leaf  and  branch  in  beauty  flourished, 
All  the  race  of  trees  and  gi'asses. 
All  the  tribe  of  reeds  and  sedges. 
Birds  sang  sweetly  in  the  tree-tops, 
Making  music  all  the  day  long ; 
Cheerily  chirped  the  noisy  throstle, 
Sweetly  sang  the  low-voiced  cuckoo. 

Berries  gi'ew  upon  the  mountains, 
Golden  flowers  adorned  the  meadows 
Leaf  and  fruit  of  every  flavor. 
Bush  and  herb  of  every  fashion  ; 
All  things  fair  and  lovely  flourished, 
All  things  save  the  one  most  precious 
Fruit  of  fruits,  the  golden  barley. 

Then  one  morning  "Wainamoinen. 
Taking  fi'om  his  pouch  of  leather 
Six  small  seeds  of  golden  barley, 
Sallied  forth  the  seed  to  scatter. 
Six  small  seeds  of  golden  barley, 
He  had  found  upon  the  sea-shore. 
On  the  mighty  water's  edges, 
And  with  loose  and  sandy  pebbles 
Had  concealed  them  in  his  skin-pouch, 
In  his  pouch  of  squiirel-leather. 

As  he  sowed  he  chanted  ever, 
"  Blessing  to  the  seed  I  scatter, 
For  it  falls  upon  the  meadow. 
By  the  grace  of  Ukko  mighty, 
3* 


68  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Through  the  open  finger-spaces 
Of  the  hand  that  all  things  fashioned, 
Falls  to  rise  again  in  beauty, 
Evermore  to  spring  and  flourish. 

"  Rise,  0  Earth  !  from  out  thy  slumbers, 
Bid  the  sofl  unlock  her  treasures, 
Bid  the  blade  arise  in  beauty, 
Bid  the  stalk  grow  strong  and  stately ; 
On  a  thousand  stems  uplifted 
Let  the  yellow  harvest  ripen, 
Let  it  cover  all  my  cornfields 
Hundred-fold  for  seed  I  planted. 

"  Ukko  mighty  !  God  above  us, 
Gracious  Ukko  !  Father  in  Heaven, 
Thou  who  all  the  sky  commandest, 
For  the  fleecy  clouds  appointing 
Every  morn  their  course  and  pathway, 
In  thine  airy  realm  consulting, 
In  thy  kingdom  taking  counsel, 
Send  us  clouds  from  east  and  northeast, 
From  the  south  and  fi'om  the  sunset ; 
Let  them  scatter  drops  refreshing ; 
Bid  them  all  their  sweetness  sprinkle, 
That  the  ear  may  lift  its  treasure 
And  the  corn  make  haste  to  ripen." 

Gracious  Ukko,  Father  in  Heaven, 
Heard  the  prayer  the  minstrel  lifted, 
From  the  sovith  a  cloud  commanded, 
From  the  west  despatched  its  fellow, 
Bid  one  gather  in  the  northwest. 
And  from  out  the  east  another ; 
Closing  then  their  swarthy  borders. 
Crowding  all  in  haste  together. 
Bade  them  all  their  sweetness  sprinkle, 


WAINAMOINEN'S   SOWING. 

Scatter  wide  their  drops  refreshing, 
That  the  ear  might  rise- in  beauty 
And  the  corn  make  haste  to  ripen. 
Soon  from  out  the  earth  and  darkness, 
Lo,  the  tender  blade  uplifted. 
And  anon  the  ears  imfolded, 
Through  the  care  of  Wainamoinen. 

Summer  days  had  sped  arid  vanished, 
Days  and  nights  a  goodly  number, 
When  the  ancient  Wainamoinen 
Sought  the  field  to  see,  if  might  be, 
How  his  ploughing  and  his  sowing 
And  his  praying  had  been  prospered. 
Verily  the  corn  had  thriven 
Wholly  to  the  bard's  contentment ; 
Lo,  the  ears,  in  six  rows  seeded. 
Waved  o'er  all  the  callow  cornfield, 
And  the  straw,  in  three  joints  budded, 
Covered  all  the  teeming  acres. 

Glancing  then  a  moment  round  him. 
Near  him,  lo  !  a  little  cuckoo. 
And  the  birdling  sang  unto  him. 
Long  the  birch-tree  first  surveying  : 

"  Why,  when  all  the  wood  has  fallen, 
Standeth  there  the  slender  birch-tree  1 " 

Spake  in  answer  Wainamoinen  : 
"  Therefore  is  the  birch  left  standing, 
That  its  summit,  soaring  skyward. 
Make  for  thee,  my  pretty  birdling, 
Station  for  thy  cheerful  singing. 
Warble  here,  my  prett}''  birdling. 
Silken  throat  and  breast  attiuiing, 
Warble  forth  thy  SAvoetest  carol 
Dulcet  ad  a  bell  of  silver. 


60  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  Sing  at  morn  and  sing  at  evening, 
Sing  when  sunny,  noon  is  highest, 
Blessing  to  these  chosen  places, 
Gro'5\th  and  greenness  to  our  forests, 
Wealth  along  our  ocean  borders 
For  our  garuer's  rich  abundance." 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  — J.  a  Whittier. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest-time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed. 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  theii"  load. 
And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  fi'll  t»f  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams  — 
Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores. 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves. 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  com. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids. 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low. 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places ;  sorhe  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon. 

Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 

Looked  on  them  through  the  gi-eat  elm-boughs  i 
On  stvu-dy  boyhood,  sun-embrowned, 

On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 

Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves ! 


THE  WITCH'S   DAUGHTER.  61 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl. 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 

That  rivei'-valley  ever  heard 

From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird ; 
For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 

Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 
She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid. 

Who  knew  that  none  woidd  condescend 

To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 

Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 

Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree. 
Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 

Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 

Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mothei-'s  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone. 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone. 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round, 
Day  after  day,  with.no  relief : 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears. 

Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 
But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 

And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 

And  taiuit  her  witli  her  mother's  shame. 


62  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  foce, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door. 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears. 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmiu's  down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest  j 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

*'  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  flv, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows,  —  not  I. 

I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe. 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed ! 

Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow. 

Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 

But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  !  " 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER.  63 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 

Sat  by  the  window's  nari'ow  pane, 

White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 
She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 

And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 

To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 

Gi-ew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die  ! 
Oh !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 

And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 

And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 

A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 

To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 
Let  me  not  live  imtil  my  heart, 

"With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 

To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 
0  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child. 

Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  and  small. 

And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all." 


A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell. 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her  1    Had  he  sent 
His  angel  down  1    In  flesh  and  blood. 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  mixed  with  gray, 


64:  PUBLIC  AND   PAELOE   EEADINGS. 

The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 

His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As  folded  in  his  strong  embrace. 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  0  truest  friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers  showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors  !  "  Esek  said, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  off"ence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

Henceforth  she  stands  no  moi'e  alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 


■■& 


Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung. 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  bum, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  ! 

0,  pleasantly  the  harvest  moon. 

Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows. 

Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm-boughs  ! 
On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 

On  Esek's  shaggy  strength,  it  fell ; 

And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  weU  !  " 

Abridged. 


THE   HORSEBACK   RIDE.  65 

THE   HORSEBACK  RIDE.  —  Grace  Greenwood. 

WHEX  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 
"When  I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shi'ink  from  its 
strife  ; 
When  its  fruits,  turned  to  ashes,  are  mocking  my  taste, 
And  its  fairest  scenes  seem  but  a  desolate  waste, 
Then  come  ye  not  near  me,  my  sad  heart  to  cheer, 
With  fi'iendship's  soft  accents,  or  sympathy's  tear,  — 
No  pity  I  ask,  and  no  counsel  I  need. 
But  bring  me,  0  bring  me,  my  gallant  young  steed. 
With  his  high-arched  neck,  and  his  nostrils  spi-ead  wide. 
His  eyes  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of  pride  ! 
As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein, 
The  strength  of  my  spirit  returneth  again  ! 
The  bonds  are  all  broken  that  fettered  my  mind. 
And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ; 
My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  moment  bowed  down, 
And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown  ! 

Now  we're  off,  like  the  winds  to  the  plains  whence  they  came, 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame  ! 

On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod, 

Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod  ! 

On,  on  like  a  deer,  when  the  hound's  darly  bay 

Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away  and  away  ! 

Still  faster,  still  farther,  he  leaps  at  my  cheer. 

Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirs  in  my  ear  ! 

Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track,  — 

See  his  glancing  hoofs  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back  ! 

Now  a  glen,  dark  as  midnight,  —  what  matter  1  —  we  '11  down, 

Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks  o'er  us  frown ! 

The  thick  branches  shake  as  we  're  hurrying  through, 

And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew  ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish  hand 
Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  command  1 

E 


66  PUBLIC  AND  PAELOE  EEADINGS. 

What  a  glorious  creature  !     Ah  !  glance  at  him  now, 

As  I  check  him  awhile  ou  this  green  hillock's  brow  ! 

How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh, 

And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud,  stately  play  ! 

Hurrah  !  off  again,  dashing  on  as  in  ire, 

Till  the  long,  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire  ! 

Ho  !  a  ditch  ! —  Shall  we  pause  1     No  ;  the  bold  leap  we  dare, 

Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air  ! 

0,  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may  praise, 

Not  the  wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room's  blaze, 

Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race, 

Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase. 

Nor  the  sail  higli  heaving  the  waters  o'er, 

Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore,     ' 

Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 

Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed. 


THE  VEILED   PICTURE. 

TWO  artist  lovers  sought  the  hand  of  a  noted  painter's 
daughter.  The  question  which  of  the  two  should  possess 
himself  of  the  prize  so  earnestly  coveted  by  both  having 
come,  finally,  to  the  father,  he  promised  to  give  his  child  to 
the  one  that  could  paint  best.  So  each  strove  for  the  maiden 
with  the  highest  skill  his  genius  could  command. 

One  painted  a  picture  of  fruit,  and  displayed  it  to  the 
father's  inspection  in  a  beautiful  grove,  where  gay  birds  sang 
sweetly  among  the  foliage,  and  all  nature  rejoiced  in  the 
luxuriance  of  bountiful  life.  Presently  the  birds  came  down 
to  the  canvas  of  the  young  painter;  and  attempted  to  eat  the 
fruit  he  had  pictured  there. .  In  his  surprise  and  joy  at  the 
yoimg  artist's  skill,  the  father  declared  that  no  one  could 
triumph  over  that.    • 

Soon,  however,  the  second  lover  came  with  his  picture, 
and  it  was  veiled.     "  Take  the  veil  from  your  painting,"  said 


THE   SHIP    ON   FIRE.  67 

the  old  man.  "  I  leave  that  to  you,"  said  the  young  artist, 
with  simple  modesty.  The  fathei'  of  the  young  and  lovely 
maiden  then  approached  the  veiled  picture  and  attempted  to 
uncover  it.  But  imagine  his  astonishment  when,  as  he  at- 
tempted to  take  off  the  veil,  he  found  the  veil  itself  to  be  a 
picture  !  We  need  not  say  who  was  the  lucky  lover ;  for,  if 
the  artist  who  deceived  the  birds  by  skill  in  fruit  manifested 
great  powers  of  art,  he  who  could  so  veil  his  canvas  with  the 
pencd  as  to  deceive  a  skilful  master  was  surely  the  greater 
artist. 


THE   SHIP   OX   FIRE.  —  Henry  Bateman. 

MORNING  !  all  speedeth  well ;  the  bright  sun- 
Lights  up  the  deep  blue  wave,  and  favoring  breeze 
Fills  the  white  sails,  while  o'er  that  Southern  sea 
The  ship,  with  all  the  busy  life  within, 
Holds  on  her  ocean  course,  alone,  but  glad  ! 
For  aU  is  yet,  as  all  has  been  the  while 
Since  the  white  cliffs  were  left,  without  or  fear 
Or  danger  to  those  hundreds  grouping  now 
Upon  the  sunny  deck. 

Fire  !  —  Fire  !  —  Fire  !  —  Fire  ! 


Scorching  smoke  in  many  a  wreath, 

Sulphurous  blast  of  heated  air. 
Grim  presentment  of  quick  death. 

Crouching  fear  and  stern  despair, 
Hist,  to  what  the  Master  saith,  — 

"  Steady,  steersman,  steady  there  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

To  the  deck  the  women  led. 

Children  helped  by  stalwart  men, 
Calmly,  firmly  mustered 

All  the  crew  assemble  then, 


68  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

And  to  orders  briefly  said,  ■ 

Comes  the  sharp  response  again,  —  Ay  !  ay  !  • 

"  To  the  mast-head  !  "  —  it  is  done,  — 

"  Look  to  leeward,"  —  scores  obey,  — 
"  And  to  windward,"  —  many  a  one 

Turns,  and  never  turns  away  ; 
Steadfast  is  the  word  and  tone, 

"  Man  the  boats,  and  clear  away  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Hotter  !  hotter  !  —  heave  and  strain  ;  — 

In  the  hollow,  on  the  wave,  — 
Pump  !  and  flood  the  deck  again,  — 

Work  !  no  danger  daunts  the  brave,  — 
Hope  and  trust  are  not  in  vain, 

God  looks  on,  and  he  can  save.  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Desolate  !  all  desolate  ! 

Nothing,  nothing  to  be  seen,  — 
Wait  and  watch,  and  hope  and  wait, 

Hope  has  never  hopeless  been,  — 
"  Men,  ye  know  that  God  is  great. 

Would  he  —  he  can  intervene.  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

"  What  above  1 "  —  nor  sail,  nor  sound,  — 

"  Leeward  ? "  —  nothing,  far  or  near,  — 
"  What  to  windward  V  —  to  the  bound 

Of  the  horizon  all  is  clear  ;  — 
Yet  again  the  words  go  round, 

"  Work,  men,  work ;  we  dare  not  fear  !  " —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

From  a  heavy  lurch  abeam, 

Struggling,  shivering,  reeling  back,  — 
Crash  !  —  with  rush  and  shout  and  scream 

Comes  the  foreyard,  with  its  wrack 
Crushing  hope  as  it  might  seem,  — 

"  Steady  !  —  keep  the  sun-line  track  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 


THE    SHIP    ON   FIRE.  69 

All  is  order  !  —  ready  all  !  — 

Watching  in  appointed  place 
Underneath  the  smoky  pall, 

Firm  of  foot,  with  tranquil  face, 
Resolute,  whate'er  befall, 

Holds  the  Captain's  measured  pace.  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Hotter  !  hotter  !  hotter  still ! 

Backward  driven  every  one  ; 
All  in  vain  the  various  skill, 

All  that  man  may  do  is  done  ; 
"  Brave  hearts  !  strive  yet  with  a  will, 

Never  deem  that  hope  is  gone  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Hist  !  —  as  if  a  sudden  thought 

Dare  not  utter  what  it  knew,  — 
Falls  a  trembling  whisper,  fraught 

As  of  hope,  to  frightened  few ; 
With  a  doubting  heart-ache  caught, 

And  a  choking  "  Is  it  true  1"  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Then  it  comes,  —  "A  sail !  a  sail !  "  — 

Up  from  prostrate  misery, 
Up  from  heart -bi-eak  woe  and  wail, 

Up  to  shuddering  ecstasy  ;  — 
"  Can  so  strange  a  promise  fail  ]  " 

"  Call  the  Master,  let  him  see  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  1 

Silence  !     Silence !     Silence  !  —  Pray  ! 


Every  moment  is  an  hour. 

Minutes  long  as  weary  years. 
While  with  concentrated  power. 

Through  the  haze  that  clear  eye  peers,  — 
"  Ko,"  —  "  Yes,"  —  "  No,"  — the  strong  men  cower. 

Till  he  sighs,  —  faith  conquering  fears,  —  "  Ay  !  ay ! 


70  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

Riseth  now  the  throbbing  cry, 

Born  of  hope  and  hopelessness  ; 
Iron  men  weep  bitterly, 

Unused  hands  and  cheeks  caress,  — 
Feeling's  wild  variety ;  — 

Strange  and  heartless  were  it  less.  —  Ay  !  ay  1 

Through  the  sunlight's  glittering  gleam 

On  old  Ocean's  rugged  breast, 
As  a  fantasy  in  dream. 

Yet  beyond  all  doubt  confest. 
Comes  the  ship,  —  God's  gift,  they  deem, 

Ah,   "  He  overrideth  best !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Coming  !  —  Come  !  —  that  foremost  man 

Shouts  as  only  true  heart  may, 
"  Ship  on  fire  !  "  —  "  You  will ?"  —  «  You  can  1 "  — 

"  Near  us,  for  the  rescue,  stay  !  " 
Almost  as  the  words  began, 

Answering  words  are  on  their  way,  —  *'  Ay  !  ay  ! " 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  —  words  of  little  worth 

But  as  imaging  the  soul ;  — 
See,  the  boats  are  struggling  forth,  — 

Marvel !  how  they  pitch  and  roll 
On  the  dark  wave,  through  the  froth,  — 

God  can  bring  them  safe  and  whole.  —  Ay !  ay  ! 

Have  a  care,  men  !  have  a  care  ! 

Steady,  —  steady,  to  the  stern,  — 
Now,  my  brave  hearts,  handy  there,  — 

See,  the  deck  begins  to  burn ! 
Child  and  woman,  soft  and  fair, 

Go, — thank  God,  —  be  quick,  —  return.  — Ay !  ay  1 

Blistering  smoke  all  dim  and  red. 
Writhing  flakes  of  lurid  flame,  — ■ 


THE   SHIP    ON   FIRE.  71 

Decks  that  scorch  the  hasty  tread,  — 

Shuddering  sounds,  as  if  they  came 
Wailing  from  a  tortured  bed,  — 

"  Boatswain,  call  each  man  by  name  !  "  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Strong,  sad  now,  one  by  one, 

At  the  voice  which  all  obey, 
Silently,  till  all  are  gone. 

Fill  the  boats,  and  pass  away, 
And  the  Captain  stands  alone  ;  — 

Has  he  not  done  well  the  day  1  —  Ay  !  ay ! 

0  that  boat-load  !  —  anxious  eyes. 

Hearts,  where  painful  throbbings  swell, 

Watch  and  wait,  with  sympathies 
Far  too  deep  for  tongue  to  tell  ; 

All  suppressed  are  words  and  cries,  — 
Surely  it  will  all  go  well !  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

All  is  well !  that  man  so  true 

Stands  upon  the  stranger's  deck. 
And  a  thrilling  pulse  runs  through 

Those  glad  hearts,  which  none  may  check,  — 
Listen  to  the  wild  halloo  ! 

Rainbow  joy,  in  fortune's  wreck  :  —  Ay  !  ay  I 

Pah  !  —  a  rush  of  smothered  light 

Bursts  the  staggering  ship  asunder,  — 
Lightning  flashes,  fierce  and  bright,  — 

Blasting  sounds,  as  if  of  thunder,  — 
Dread  destruction  wins  the  fight 

Round  about,  above,  and  under.  —  Ay !  ay  1 

Come  away  !  w^o  may  not  stay, ; 

All  is  done  that  man  can  do ; 
Let  us  take  our  onward  way, 

Life  has  claims  and  duties  new  ; 


72  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

God  is  a  strong  help  and  stay, 

He  can  guide  all  sorrow  through  !  —  Ay  !  ay  1 

Thanks  unceasing !  thanks  and  praise  I 

For  his  great  deliverance  shown, 
Let  the  remnant  of  our  days 

Testify  what  he  has  done ; 
Marvellous  his  loving  ways  ! 

Merciful,  as  we  have  known  !  —  Ay  !  ay  ! 

And  so  the  good  ship  Merchantman  sailed  on, 
With  double  freight  of  life,  and  God's  kind  care, 
Till  at  the  Cape,  the  rescued  voyagers  left 
To  other  kindness  of  the  dwellers  there, 
She  spread  her  sails  again,  and  went  her  way. 


SONG   OF   THE   RIVER. 

CLEAR  and  cool,  clear  and  cool. 
By  laughing  shadow  and  dreaming  pool ; 
Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear. 

By  shining  shingle  and  foaming  weir; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings, 
And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-beU  rings ; 

Undefiled  for  the  undefiled. 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul. 

By  the  smoke-grimed  town  in  its  murky  cowl ; 
Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank. 

By  wharf,  and  sewer,  and  slimy  bank ; 
Darker  and  darker  the  farther  1  go, 
Baser  and  baser,  the  richer  I  grow ;  — 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled  1 
Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child. 


THE   FATE   OF   MACGREGOR.  73 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 

The  flood-gates  are  open  ;  away  to  the  sea  ! 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 

Cleansing  my  stream  as  I  hurry  along, 

To  the  golden  sands  and  the  leaping  bar, 

And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 

As  I  lose  m3'self  in  the  infinite  main. 

Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again. 
Undefiled  for  the  undefiled, 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 


THE   FATE   OF   MACGREGOR.  —  James  Hogg. 

*'  ^  /T'ACGREGOR,  Macgregor,  remember  our  foeman  ; 

J_VJ_  The  moon  rises  broad  from  the  brow  of  Ben-Lomond ; 
The  clans  are  impatient,  and  chide  thy  delay ; 
Arise  !  let  us  bound  to  Glen-Lyon  away." 

Stern  scowled  the  Macgregor ;  then,  silent  and  sullen, 
He  turned  his  red  eye  to  the  braes  of  Strathfillan  : 

"  Go,  Malcolm,  to  sleep,  let  the  clans  be  dismissed ; 
The  Campbells  this  night  for  Macgregor  must  rest." 

"  Macgregor,  Macgregor,  our  scouts  have  been  flying 
Three  days  round  the  hills  of  M'Nab  and  Glen-Lyon  ; 
Of  riding  and  running  such  tidings  they  bear, 
We  must  meet  them  at  home,  else  they  '11  quickly  be  here." 

"  The  Campbell  may  come,  as  his  promises  bind  him, 
And  haughty  M'Nab,  with  his  giants  behind  him ; 
This  night  I  am  bound  to  relinquish  the  fray, 
And  do  what  it  freezes  my  vitals  to  say. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  brother,  this  hoiTor  of  mind  ; 
Thou  knowest  in  the  strife  I  was  never  behind, 
Nor  ever  receded  a  foot  from  the  van, 
Or  blenched  at  the  ire  or  the  prowess  of  man  ; 
4 


74  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   READINGS. 

But  I  've  sworn,  by  the  cross,  by  my  God,  and  my  all ! 
An  oath  which  I  cannot,  and  dare  not  recall,  — 
Err  the  shadows  of  midnight  fall  east  from  the  pile, 
To  meet  with  a  spirit  this  night  in  Glen-Gyle. 

"  Last  night,  in  my  chamber,  all  thoughtful  and  lone, 
I  called  to  remembrance  some  deeds  I  had  done. 
When  entered  a  lady,  with  visage  so  wan. 
And  looks  such  as  never  were  fastened  on  man. 
I  knew  her,  0  brother !  I  knew  her  too  well ! 
Of  that  once  fair  dame  such  a  tale  I  could  teU 
As  would  thrill  thy  bold  heart ;  but  how  long  she  remained. 
So  racked  was  my  spirit,  my  bosom  so  pained, 
I  knew  not,  —  but  ages  seemed  short  to  the  while. 
Though,  proffer  the  Highlands,  nay,  all  the  green  isle, 
With  length  of  existence  no  man  can  enjoy. 
The  same  to  endure,  the  dread  proffer  I  'd  fly  ! 
The  thrice-threatened  pangs  of  last  night  to  forego, 
MacgTegor  would  dive  to  the  mansions  below. 
Despairing  and  mad,  to  futurity  blind, 
The  present  to  shun,  and  some  respite  to  find, 
I  swore,  ere  the  shadow  fell  east  from  the  pile. 
To  meet  her  alone  by  the  brook  of  Glen-Gyle. 

"  She  told  me,  and  turned  ray  chilled  heart  to  a  stone, 
The  glory  and  name  of  Macgregor  were  gone  ; 
That  the  pine  which  for  ages  had  shed  a  bright  halo 
Afar  on  the  mountains  of  Highland  Glen-Falo, 
Should  wither  and  fall  ere  the  turn  of  yon  moon 
Smit  through  by  the  canker  of  hated  Colquhoun ; 
That  a  feast  on  Macgregors  each  day  should  be  common, 
For  years,  to  the  eagles  of  Lennox  and  Lomond. 

"  A  parting  embrace  in  one  moment  she  gave  ; 
Her  breath  was  a  furnace,  her  bosom  the  grave  ! 
Then  flitting  illusive,  she  said,  with  a  frown, 

'  The  mighty  Macgregor  shall  yet  be  my  own  ! '  " 


I 


I 


THE   FATE    OF    MACGREGOR.  75 

"  Macgregor,  thy  fancies  are  wild  as  the  wind  ; 
The  dreams  of  the  night  have  disordered  thy  mind, 
Come,  buckle  thy  panoply,  —  march  to  the  field,  — 
See,  brother,  how  hacked  are  tliy  helmet  and  shield  ! 
Ay,  that  was  M'Nab,  in  the  height  of  his  pride, 
When  the  lions  of  Dochart  stood  firm  by  his  side. 
This  night  the  proud  chief  his  presumption  shall  rue  ; 
Rise,  brother,  these  chinks  in  his  heart-blood  will  glue ; 
Thy  fantasies  frightful  shall  flit  on  the  wing, 
"When  loud  with  thy  bugle  Glen-Lyon  shaU  ring." 

Like  glimpse  of  the  moon  through  the  storm  of  the  night, 

Macgregor's  red  eye  shed  one  sparkle  of  light ; 

It  faded,  —  it  darkened,  —  he  shuddered,  —  he  sighed,  — 

"  No  !  not  for  the  universe  ! ''  low  he  replied. 

Away  went  Macgi-egor,  but  went  not  alone  : 
To  watch  the  dread  rendezvous,  Malcolm  has  gone. 
They  oared  the  broad  Lomond,  so  still  and  serene, 
And  deep  in  her  bosom,  how  awful  the  scene  ! 
O'er  mountains  inverted  the  blue  waters  curled, 
And  rocked  them  on  skies  of  a  far  nether  world. 

All  silent  they  went,  for  the  time  was  approaching  ; " 

The  moon  the  blue  zenitli  ah-eady  was  touching  j 

Ko  foot  was  abroad  on  the  forest  or  hill. 

No  sound  but  the  lullaby  sung  by  the  rill : 

Young  Malcolm,  at  distance  crouched,  trembling  the  while,  — 

Macgregor  stood  lone  by  the  brook  of  Glen-Gyle. 

Few  minutes  had  passed,  ere  they  spied  on  the  stream 
A  skiff  sailing  light,  where  a  lady  did  seem ; 
Her  sail  was  the  web  of  the  gossamer's  loom  ; 
The  glow-worm  her  wake-light,  the  rainbow  her  boom ; 
A  dim  raylcss  beam  was  her  prow  and  her  mast, 
Like  wold-fire  at  midniglit,  that  glares  on  the  waste. 
Though  rough  was  the  river  with  rock  and  cascade, 
No  torrent,  no  rock,  her  velocity  stayed  ; 


76  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

She  wimpled  the  water  to  weather  and  lee, 

And  heaved  as  if  borne  on  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

Mute  Nature  was  roused  in  the  bounds  of  the  glen ; 

The  wild  deer  of  Gairtney  abandoned  his  den, 

Fled  panting  away,  over  river  and  isle, 

Nor  once  turned  his  eye  to  the  brook  of  Glen-Gyle. 

The  fox  fled  in  terror ;  the  eagle  awoke 
As  slumbering  he  dozed  on  the  shelve  of  the  rock ; 
Astonished,  to  hide  in  the  moonbeam  he  flew, 
And  screwed  the  night-heaven  till  lost  in  the  blue. 

Young  Malcolm  beheld  the  pale  lady  approach. 
The  chieftain  salute  her,  and  shrink  from  her  touch. 
He  saw  the  Macgregor  kneel  down  on  the  plain, 
As  be^oingf  for  something  he  could  not  obtain  : 
She  raised  him  indignant,  derided  his  stay, 
Then  bore  him  on  board,  set  her  sail  and  away. 

Though  fast  thejred  bark  down  the  river  did  glide. 
Yet  faster  ran  Malcolm  adown  by  its  side ; 
.    "  Macgregor  !  Macgregor  !  "  he  bitterly  cried  ; 
*'  Macgregor  !  Macgregor  !  "  the  echoes  replied. 
He  struck  at  the  lady,  but,  strange  though  it  seem, 
His  sword  only  fell  on  the  rocks  and  the  stream  ; 
But  the  groans  from  the  boat,  that  ascended  amain, 
Were  groans  from  a  bosom  in  horror  and  pain. 
They  reached  the  dark  lake,  and  bore  lightly  away,  - 
Macgregor  is  vanished  forever  and  aye  ! 


SCENE  IN  AN  IRISH  SCHOOL.  —  Gerald  Griffin. 

THE  school-house  at  Glendalough  was  situated  near  the 
romantic  river  which  flows  between  the  wild  scenery  of 
Drumooff  and  the  Seven  Church.  It  was  a  low  stone  build- 
ing,  indifferently  thatched ;  the  whole  interior  consisting 
of  one  oblong  room,  floored  with  clay,  and  lighted  by  two  or 


SCENE  IN   AN  IKISH   SCHOOL.  77 

three  windows,  the  panes  of  which  were  patched  with  old 
copy-books,  or  altogether  supplanted  by  school  slates.  The 
walls  had  once  been  plastered  and  whitewashed,  but  now 
partook  of  that  appearance  of  dilapidation  which  character- 
ized the  whole  building.  Along  each  wall  was  placed  a  row 
of  large  stones,  —  the  one  intended  for  the  boys,  the  other  for 
the  girls  ;  the  decorum  of  Mr.  Lenigan's  establishment  reqiiir- 
iug  that  they  should  be  kept  apart  on  ordinary  occasions,  for 
Mr.  Lenigan,  it  shoiJd  be  understood,  had  not  been  furnished 
with  any  Pestalozzian  Ught.  The  only  chair  in  the  whole 
establishment  was  that  which  was  usually  occupied  by  Mr, 
Lenigan  himself ;  and  a  table  appeared  to  be  a  luxury  of 
which  thev  were  either  ignorant  or  whollv  rej^ardless. 

One  morning  Mr.  Lenigan  was  rather  later  than  his  usual 
hour  in  taking  possession  of  the  chair  above  alluded  to. 
The  sun  was  mounting  swiftly  up  the  heavens.  The  row 
of  stones  before  described  were  already  occupied,  and  the 
babble  of  a  hundred  voices  like  the  sound  of  a  beehive  filled 
the  house.  Now  and  then  a  school-bov  in  frieze  coat  and 
cordmroy  trousers,  with  au  ink-bottle  dangling  at  his  breast, 
copy-book,  slate,  Yoster,  and  reading-book  under  one  arm, 
and  a  turf  under  the  other,  dropped  in  and  took  his  place  on 
the  next  unoccupied  stone.  A  great  boy,  with  a  huge  slate  in 
his  arms,  stood  in  the  centre'  of  the  apartment,  making  a  list 
of  all  those  who  were  guilty  of  any  indecorum  in  the  absence 
of  the  '  Masther,'  Near  the  door  was  a  blazing  turf  fire, 
which  the  sharp  autumnal  winds  already  rendered  agreeable. 
In  a  comer  behind  the  door  lay  a  heap  of  fuel  formed  by  the 
contributions  of  all  the  scholars ;  each  being  obliged  to  bring 
one  sod  of  turf  every  day,  and  each  having  the  privilege  of 
sitting  bv  the  fire  while  his  own  sod  was  burning.  Those  who 
failed  to  pay  their  tribute  of  fuel  sat  cold  and  shivering  the 
whole  day  long  at  the  farther  end  of  the'  room,  huddling  to- 
gether their  bare  and  frost-bitten  toes,  and  casting  a  longing, 
envious  eye  toward  the  peristyle  of  weli-marbled  shins  that 
sun-ounded  the  fire. 

Full  in  the  influence  of  the  cherishing  flame  was  placed  the 


78  PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  HEADINGS. 

hay-bottomed  chair  that  supported  the  person  of  Mr.  Henry 
Lenigan,  when  that  great  man  presided  in  person  in  his  rural 
academy.  On  his  right  lay  a  close  bush  of  hazel  of  astound- 
ing size,  the  emblem  of  his  authority  and  the  implement  of 
castigation.  Near  this  was  a  wooden  sthroker,  that  is  to  say, 
a  large  rule  of  smooth  and  polished  deal,  used  for  sthroking 
lines  in  the  copy-book,  and  also  for  sthroking  the  palms  of 
refractory  pupils.  On  the  other  side  lay  a  loftj'  heap  of  copy- 
books, which  were  left  by  the  boys' and  girls  for  the  purpose 
of  having  their  copies  '  sot '  by  the  '  Masther  ! ' 

About  noon  a  sudden  hush  was  produced  by  the  appearance 
at  the  open  door  of  a  young  man,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  and 
with  something  clerical  in  his  costume  and  demeanor.  This 
was  Mr.  Lenigan's  classical  assistant ;  for  to  himself  the  vol- 
umes of  ancient  literature  were  a  fountain  sealed.  Five  or  six 
stout  young  men,  all  of  whom  were  intended  for  learned  pro- 
fessions, were  the  only  portion  of  Mr.  Lenigan's  scholars  that 
aspired  to  those  lofty  sources  of  information.  At  the  sound 
of  the  word  "  Virgil !  "  from  the  lips  of  the  assistant  the 
whole  class  started  from  their  seats,  and  crowded  around  him, 
each  brandishing  a  smoky  volume  of  the  great  Augustan 
poet,  who,  could  he  have  looked  into  this  Irish  academy  from 
that  part  of  the  infernal  regions  in  which  he  had  been  placed 
by  his  pupil  Dante,  might  have  been  tempted  to  exclaim,  in 
the  pathetic  words  of  his  hero  :  — 

".Sunt  liic  etiam  sua  prcemia  laudi, 
Sunt  lachryma  rerum  et  mentem  mortalia  .tangunt.*^ 

"  Who  's  head  1 "  was  the   first   question  proposed  by  the 
assistant,  after  he  had  thrown  open  the  volume  at  that  part 
marked  as  the  day's  lesson. 
"  Jim  Naughtin,  sir." 

"  Well,  Naughtin,  begin.     Consther,*  consther  now,,  an'  be 
quick ! 

"At  puer  Ascanius  mecTiis  in  vallibus  acri 
Gaudet  equo ;  jaraque  hos  ciirsu,  jam  prseterit  illos : 
Spumantemque  dari  —  " 

*  Consther,  —  translate. 


SCENE   IN  AN  IKISH   SCHOOL.  79 

"Go  on,  sir.     Why  don't  you  constherl" 

"■  At puer  Ascanius"  the  person  so  addressed  began,  "but 
the  boy  Ascanius ;  mediis  in  vallibus,  in  the  middle  of  the 
valley ;  gaudet,  rejoices." 

"  Exults,  aragal,  exults  is  a  better  word." 

"  Gaudet,  exults  ;  acri  equo,  upon  his  bitther  horse." 

"  0,  niurther  alive  !  his  bitther  horse,  inagh  %  Erra,  what 
would  make  a  horse  be  bitther,  Jim  1  Sure,  't  is  not  of  sour 
beer  he  's  talliiug !  Rejoicin'  upon  a  bitther  horse  !  Dear 
knows  what  a  show  he  was,  what  raison  he  had  for  it !  Acri 
equo,  upon  his  mettlesome  steed  ;  that 's  the  construction." 

Jim  proceeded  :  — 

Acri  equo,  upon  his  mettlesome  steed  ;  jamque,  and  now ; 
prceterit,  he  goes  beyond  —  " 

"  Outstrips,  achree  !  " 

"  Prceterit,  he  outstrips  ;  hos,  these ;  jamque  illos,  and  now 
those  ;  cursu,  in  his  course  ;  que,  and  ;  optat,  he  longs  —  " 

"  Very  good,  Jim  ;  '  longs '  is  a  very  good  word  there  ;  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  say  '  wishes.'  Did  anybody  tell 
you  that?" 

"  Dickens  a  one,  sir  !  " 

"  That  's  a  good  boy.     Well  ? " 

"  Optat,  he  longs  ;  spuniantem  aprum,  that  a  foaming  boar  \ 
dari,  shall  be  given  ;  votis,  to  his  desires  ;  aut  fulvum  leomim, 
or  that  a  tawny  lion  —  " 

"  That 's  a  good  word  again.  '  Tawny  '  's  a  good  word  ;  bet- 
ther  than  '  yellow.'  " 

"  Bescendere,  shall  descend  ;  monte,  from  the  mountain." 

"  Now,  boys,  observe  the  beauty  of  the  poet.  There  's 
great  nature  in  the  picture  of  the  boy  Ascanius.  Just  the 
same  way  as  we  see  young  Misther  Keiley  of  the  Grove,  at 
the  fox-chase  the  other  day,  leadin'  the  whole  of  'em  right 
and  left,  jamque  hos,  jamque  illos,  an'  now  Misther  Cleary,  an' 
now  Captain  Davis,  he  outsthripped  in  his  course.  A  beau- 
tiful picture,  boys,  there  is  in  thein  four  lines,  of  a  fine  high- 
blooded  youth.  Yes,  people  are  always  the  same  ;  times 
an'  manners  change,  but  the  heart  o'  man  is  the  same  now  as 


80  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

it  was  in  the  days  of  Augustus.  But  consther  your  task, 
Jim,  an'  then  I  '11  give  you  an'  the  boys  a  little  commentary 
upon  its  beauties." 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  read  as  far  as  prcetexit  nomine  culpam, 
after  which  the  assistant  proceeded  to  pronounce  his  little 
commentary  :  — 

"Now,  boys,  for  what  I  told  ye.  Them  seventeen  lines 
that  Jim  Naughtin  consthered  this  minute  contains  as  much 
as  fifty  in  a  modern  book.  I  pointed  out  to  ye  before  the 
picture  of  Ascanius,  an'  I  '11  back  it  again  the  world  for  na- 
ture.    Then  there  's  the  incipient  storm,  — 

'  Interea  magno  misceri  murmure  coelum 
Incipit.' 

Erra  !  don't  be  talkin',  but  listen  to  that  !  There  's  a  rum- 
bling in  the  language  like  the  sound  of  comin'  thundher,  — 

'.  .  .  .  insequitur  commixta  grandine  nimbus.' 

JD'  ye  hear  the  change  1  D'  ye  hear  all  the  s's  1  D'  ye  hear  'em 
whistlin'  1  D'  ye  hear  the  black  squall  comin'  up  the  hill- 
side, brushin'  up  the  dust  and  dry  leaves  off  the  road,  and 
hissin'  through  the  threes  and  bushes  1  An'  d'  ye  hear  the 
hail  dhriven  afther,  an'  spattherin'  the  laves,  and  whitenin'  the 
face  o'  the  counthry  '?  Commixta  grandine  nimbus  !  That  I 
might  n't  sin,  but  when  I  read  them  words,  I  gather  my  head 
down  between  my  shouldhers,  as  if  it  was  hailin'  atop  o'  me. 
An'  then  the  sighth  of  all  the  huntin'  party  !  Dido,  an'  the 
Throjans,  an'  all  the  great  court  ladies  and  the  Tyrian  com- 
panions scatthered  like  cracked  people  about  the  place,  look- 
in'  for  shelther,  and  peltin'  about  right  and  left,  hether  and 
thether  in  all  directions  for  the  bare  life,  an'  the  floods  swell- 
in'  an'  coming,  an'  thundherin'  down  in  rivers  from  the  moun- 
tains, aiiL  all  in  three  lines  :  — 

'  Et  T>Tii  comites  passim,  et  Trojana  juventus 
Dardaniusque  nepos  Veneris,  diversa  per  agros 
Tecta  metii  petiere  :  ruunt  de  montibus  amnes.' 


SCENE   IN   AN  IRISH   SCHOOL.  81 

An'  see  the  beauty  of  the  poet,  followiu'  up  the  character  of 
Ascanius  ;  he  makes  him  the  last  to  quit  the  field.  First  the 
Tyriau  comrades,  an  effeminate  race,  that  ran  at  the  sighth 
of  a  shower,  as  if  they  were  made  o'  salt,  that  they  'd  melt 
under  it ;  and  then  the  Throjau  youth,  lads  that  w-ere  used 
to  it  in  the  first  book ;  and  last  of  all  the  spii'ited  boy  Asca- 
nius himself     (Silence  near  the  doore  ! ) 

*  Speluncam  Dido,  dux  et  Trojanus  eandem, 
Deveniunt.' 

Observe,  boys,  he  no  longer,  as  of  old,  calls  him  the  pius 
/Eneas,  only  Dux  Trojanus,  the  Throjan  laidher,  an'  't  is  he 
that  was  the  laidher  and  the  lad ;  see  the  taste  of  the  poet 
not  to  call  him  the  pious  iEneas  now,  nor  even  mention  his 
name,  as  if  he  were  half  ashamed  of  him,  knowin'  well  what 
a  lad  he  had  to  dale  with.  There  's  where  Virgil  took  the 
cnist  out  o'  Homer's  mouth  in  the  nateness  of  his  language, 
that  you  'd  gather  a  part  o'  the  feelin'  from  the  very  shape  o'  the 
line  an'  turn  o'  the  prosidy.  As  formerly,  when  Dido  was 
askin'  iEneas  concernin'  where  he  come  from,  an'  where  he 
was  bom,  he  makes  answer  :  — 

*  Est  locus  Hesperiam  Graii  cognomine  dicunt, 
Terra  antiqua,  potens  armis  atque  ubere  glebre. 
Hue  cursus  fuit.' 

An'  there  the  line  stops  short,  as  much  as  to  say,  just  as  I 
cut  this  line  short  in  spakin'  to  you,  just  so  our  coorse  was 
cut  in  going  to  Italy.  The  same  way,  when  Juno  is  vexed  in 
talkin'  o'  the  Throjans,  he  makes  her  spake  bad  Latin  to  show 
how  mad  she  is  :  —  (Silence  ! ) 

'  Mene  incepto  desistere  victam 
"Nee  posse  Italia  Teucrorum  avertere  regem? 
Quippe  vetor  fatis  !     Pallasne  exurere  classem 
Argivum,  atque  ipsos  potuit  submergere  ponto.' 

So  he  laves  you  to  guess  what  a  passion  she  is  in,  when  he 
makes  her  lave  an'  infinitive  mood  without  an3'thing  to  govern 
it.     You  can't  attribute  it  ignorance,  for  it  would  be  a  dhroU 
4»  V 


82  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   READINGS. 

thing  in  aimest,  if  Juno,  the  queen  of  all  the  gods,  did  n't 
know  a  common  rule  in  syntax,  so  that  you  have  nothing  for 
it  but  to  say  that  she  must  be  the  very  moral  of  a  jury. 
Such,  boys,  is  the  art  o'  poets  an'  the  janius  o'  languages. 

"But  I  kept  ye  long  enough.  Go  along  to  yer  Greek  now, 
as  fast  as  ye  can,  an'  reharse.  An'  as  for  ye,"  continued  the 
learned  commentator,  turning  to  the  mass  of  English  scholars, 
"  I  see  one  comin'  over  the  river  that  '11  taich  ye  how  to  be- 
have yerselves,  as  it  is  a  thing  ye  won't  do  for  me.  Put  iip 
yer  Virgils  now,  boys,  an'  out  with  the  Greek,  an'  remember 
the  beauties  I  pointed  out  to  ye,  for  they  're  things  that  few 
can  explain  to  ye,  if  ye  have  n't  the  luck  to  think  of  'em  yer- 
selves." 

The  class  separated,  and  a  hundred  anxious  eyes  were 
directed  toward  the  open  door.  It  afforded  a  glimpse  of  a 
sunny  green,  and  a  bubbling  river,  over  which  Mr.  Lenigan, 
followed  by  his  brother  David,  was  now  observed  in  the  act 
of  picking  his  cautious  way.  At  this  apparition  a  sudden 
change  took  place  in  the  entire  condition  of  the  school. 
Stragglers  flew  to  their  places ;  the  impatient  burst  of  laugh- 
ter was  cut  short ;  the  growing  bit  of  rage  was  quelled ;  the 
uplifted  hand  dropped  harmless  by  the  side  of  its  owner ; 
merry  faces  grew  serious,  and  angry  ones  peaceable ;  the  eyes 
of  all  seemed  poring  on  their  books ;  and  the  extravagant  up- 
roar of  the  last  half-hour  was  hushed  on  a  sudden  into  a  dili- 
gent murmur.  Those  who  were  most  proficient  in  the  study 
of  the  '  Masther's '  physiognomy  detected  in  the  expression 
of  his  eyes,  as  he  entered  and  greeted  his  assistant,  something 
of  a  troubled  and  uneasy  character.  He  took  the  list  with  a 
severe  countenance  from  the  hands  of  the  boy  above-men- 
tioned, sent  all  those  whose  names  he  found  upon  the  fatal 
record  to  kneel  down  in  a  corner  until  he  should  find  leisure 
to  '  haire '  them,  and  then  prepared  to  enter  upon  his  daily 
functions. 

For  the  present,  however,  the  delinquents  are  saved  by  the 
entrance  of  a  fresh  character  upon  the  scene. 

The  new-comer  was  a  handsome  young  woman,  who  carried 


SHIPS   AT   SEA.  83 

a  pet  child  in  her  arras  and  held  another  by  the  hand.  The 
sensation  of  pleasure  which  ran  among  the  young  culprits  at 
her  appearance  showed  her  to  be  their  '  great  Captain's  Cap- 
tain," the  beloved  and  loving  helpmate  of  Mr.  Lenigan. 
Casting,  unperceived  by  her  lord,  an  encouraging  smile  toward 
the  kneeling  culprits,  she  took  an  opportunity  while  engaged  in 
a  wheedling  conversation  with  her  husband,  to  purloin  his  deal 
rule  and  to  blot  out  the  list  of  the  proscribed  from  the  slate, 
after  which  she  stole  out,  calling  David  to  dig  the  potatoes 
for  dinner. 

And  so  we,  too,  will  leave  the  school. 


SHIPS  AT   SEA.— Barry  Gray. 

I  HAVE  ships  that  went  to  sea 
More  than  fifty  years  ago  ; 
None  have  yet  come  home  to  me. 

But  are  sailing  to  and  fro. 
I  have  seen  them  in  my  sleep. 
Plunging  tlu-ough  the  shoreless  deep, 
With  tattered  sails,  and  battered  hulls, 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low,  —  flying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  stayed 

From  me,  sailing  round  the  world ; 
And  I  've  said,  "  I  'm  half  afraid 

That  their  sails  will  ne'er  be  furled." 
Great  the  treasure  that  they  hold,  — 
Silks,  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold ; 
While  the  spices  that  they  bear 
Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 
As  they  sail,  —  as  they  sail. 

Ah  !  each  sailor  in  the  port 
Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 


84  PUBLIC    AND   PAELOE   READINGS. 

Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport ; 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 
Oft  they  come  and  witli  me  walk, 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk, 
Till  I  put  my  fears  aside, 
And,  contented,  watch  the  tide 

Eise  and  fall,  —  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers. 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay, 
Days  and  nights,  for  many  years, 

Till  I  've  turned,  heart-sick,  away. 
But  the  pilots,  when  they  land, 
Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand, 
Saying  you  will  like  to  see 
Your  proud  ships  come  home  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  —  one  and  all. 

So  I  never  quite  despair. 

Nor  let  hope  nor  courage  fail ; 
And  some  day,  when  skies  are  fair, 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  shall  buy  then  all  I  need,  — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read. 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art, 
Everything,  —  except  a  heart. 
That  is  lost,  —  that  is  lost ! 

Once  when  I  was  pure  and  young. 

Richer  too  than  I  am  now, 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  me  flung, 

Or  a  wrinkle  crossed  my  brow, 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine ; 
But  she  's  something  now  divine. 
And  though  come,  my  ships  from  sea, 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me 
Evermore,  —  evermore. 


OLD   CHUMS.  85 


OLD   CHUMS.  —  Alice  Cart. 

IS  it  you,  Jack?     Old  boy,  is  it  really  youl 
I  should  n't  have  known  you  but  that  I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected  ;  —  pray,  how  do  you  do  1 
But  what,  under  heaven,  has  made  you  so  old  1 

Your  hair  !  why,  you  've  only  a  little  gray  fuzz  ! 

And  your  beard 's  white  !  but  that  can  be  beautifully  dyed; 
And  your  legs  are  n't  but  just  half  as  long  as  they  was  ; 

And  then  —  stars  and  garters  !  yoiu'  vest  is  so  wide  ! 

Is  this  your  hand  1     Lord,  how  I  envied  you  that 
In  the  time  of  our  courting,  —  so  soft,  and  so  small, 

And  now  it  is  callous  inside,  and  so  fat,  — 
Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce,  that  is  all. 

Turn  round  !  let  me  look  at  you  !  is  n't  it  odd 

How  strange  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's  chum  grows  ! 

Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  like  a  bean  in  a  pod, 

And  what  are  these  lines  branching  out  from  your  nose  1 

Your  back  has  gone  up  and  your  shoulders  gone  down, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the  plough ; 

Why,  Jack,  if  we  'd  happened  to  meet  about  town, 
I  would  n't  have  known  you  from  Adam,  I  vow  ! 

You  've  had  trouble,  have  you  1     I  'm  sorry  ;  but,  John, 
AU  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time  of  life. 

How  's  Billy,  my  namesake  1     You  don't  say  he  's  gone 
To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have  buried  your  wife  1 

Poor  Katherine  !  so  she  has  left  you,  —  ah  me  ! 

I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  fifty,  or  more. 
What  is  it  you  tell  me  ]     She  was  fifty-three  ! 

0  no,  Jack  !  she  was  n't  so  much  by  a  score  I 


86  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR  READINGS. 

"Well,  there  's  little  Katy,  —  was  that  her  name,  John  ? 

She  '11  rule  your  house  one  of  these  days  like  a  queen. 
That  baby  !  good  Lord  !  is  she  married  and  gone  1 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old  !  and  a  Katy  fourteen ! 

Then  I  give  it  up  !     Why,  you  're  younger  than  I 

By  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  to  think  you  've  come  back 

A  sober  old  graybeard,  just  ready  to  die  ! 

I  don't  understand  how  it  is,  —  do  you,  Jack  ] 

I  've  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and  bright ; 

Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning  to  hint ; 
But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  and  a  light 

'Twixt  them  and  the  page,  I  can  read  any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more  spare, 
Perhaps,  than  it  was  when  I  beat  you  at  ball ; 

My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a  stair,  — 
But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  nothing  at  all ! 

My  hair  is  just  turning  a  little,  you  see, 

And  lately  I  've  put  on  a  broader-brimmed  hat 

Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you  will  agree. 
Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for  that. 

I  'm  sometimes  a  little  rhevimatic,  't  is  true, 

And  my  nose  is  n't  quite  on  a  straight  line,  they  say  ; 

For  all  that,  I  don't  think  I  've  changed  much,  do  you] 
And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older.  Jack,  not  a  day. 


THE   OLD   IRAN'S   PRAYER.— Jean  Ingelow. 

THERE  was  a  poor  old  man 
Who  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea, 
And  heard  it  thunder,  lunging  at  the  cliffs 
As  like  to  tear  them  down.     He  lay  at  night ; 
And  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,"  said  he, 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    PRAYER.  87 

"  That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be  none  of  mine ! 

For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when  the  wind 

Flings  at  the  window,  when  it  beats  the  roof, 

And  lulls  and  stojis  and  rouses  up  again, 

And  cuts  the  crest  clean  off  the  plunging  wave, 

And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 

Why  then  I  think  of  my.  two  lads,  — my  lads 

That  would  have  worked  and  never  let  me  want, 

And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 

No,  none  of  mine ;  my  lads  were  drowned  at  sea 

My  two  —  before  the  most  of  these  were  born. 

I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my  poor  wife 

Walked  up  and  down,  and  still  walked  up  and  down, 

And  I  walked  after,  and  one  could  not  hear 

A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and  sea 

That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in  the  night, — 

The  awfullest,  the  longest,  lightest  night 

That  ever  parents  had  to  spend,  —  a  moon 

That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  breaking  wave. 

Ah  me  !  and  other  men  have  lost  their  lads, 

And  other  women  wiped  their  poor  dead  mouths, 

And  got  them  home  and  dried  them  in  the  house. 

And  seen  the  drift-wood  lie  along  the  coast. 

That  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back, 

And  seen  next  tide  the  neighbors  gather  it 

To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

Ay,  I  was  strong 
And  able-bodied,  —  loved  my  work ;  —  but  now 
I  am  a  useless  hull ;  't  is  time  I  sunk  ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way ;  I  trouble  them ; 
I  am  a  trouble  to  myself  :  but  yet 
I  feel  for  mariners  of  stoimy  nights, 
And  feel  for  wives  that  watch  ashore.     Ay,  ay  ! 
If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  :  but  I  'm  no  scholar,  no ; 
Book-learning  is  a  world  too  hard  for  me  : 
But  I  make  bold  to  say,  *  0  Lord,  good  Lord, 


88  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR    READINGS. 

I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 

To  speak  to  thee  :  but  in  the  Book  't  is  writ, 

As  I  hear  from  others  that  can  read, 

How,  when  thou  camest,  thou  didst  love  the  sea, 

And  live  with  fisherfolk,  whereby  't  is  sure 

Thou  knowest  all  the  peril  they  go  through. 

And  all  their  trouble. 

As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  I  am  too  old,  too  old,  — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried  my  poor  wife ; 
My  little  lassies  died  so  long  ago 
That  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were  like. 
Thou  knowest,  Lord  ;  they  were  such  little  ones 
I  know  they  went  to  thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore. 

0  Lord, 
I  was  a  strong  man  ;  I  have  drawn  good  food 
And  made  good  money  out  of  thy  great  sea  : 
But  yet  I  cried  for  them  at  nights ;  and  now. 
Although  I  be  so  old,  I  miss  my  lads. 
And  there  be  many  folk  this  stormy  night 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful  Lord, 
Comfort  them  ;  save  their  honest  boys,  their  pride, 
And  let  them  hear  next  ebb  the  blessedest. 
Best  sound,  —  their  boat-keels  grating  on  the  sand. 

I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words  :  I  know 
Nothing  5  I  have  no  learning,  cannot  learn,  — 
Too  old,  too  old.     They  say  I  want  for  naught, 
I  have  the  parish  pay  ;  but  I  am  dull 
Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms  me  through. 
God  save  me,  I  have  been  a  sinful  man,  — 
And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still  can  work, 
For  they  are  good  to  me ;  ay-,  good  to  me. 
But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble  !  and  I  sit. 
And  I  am  lonesome,  and  the  nights  are  few 
That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a  chair, 


i 

i 


WAR'S   END.  89 

And  sit  in  my  poor  place  and  talk  awhile. 
Why  should  they  come,  forsooth  1     Only  the  wind 
Knocks  at  my  door,  0,  long  and  loud  it  knocks, 
The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a  mind 
To  enter  in." 

Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake  : 
.These  were  the  last  words  of  his  aged  mouth,  — 
But  One  did  kxock.     One  came  to  sup  with  him, 
That  humble,  weak  old  man  ;  knocked  at  his  door, 
In  the  rough  pauses  of  the  laboring  wind. 
I  tell  you  that  One  knocked  while  it  was  dark, 
Save  whei-e  their  foaming  passion  had  made  white 
Those  livid  seething  billows.     What  he  said 
In  that  poor  place  where  he  did  talk  awhile, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assured, 
That  when  the  neighbors  came  the  morrow  morn, 
What  time  the  wind  had  bated,  and  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  old  man's  floor,  they  saw  the  smile 
He  passed  away  in,  and  they  said,   "  He  looks 
As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of  Christ, 
And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out  his  arms 
To  come  to  Him  !  " 


WAR'S   EXD.  —  A.  Melville  Bell. 

AH  !  what  inventive  skill  has  man  displayed, 
To  maim  and  slay  his  brother  of  the  sod,  — 
Slaughter  his  pastime,  horrid  War  a  trade  !  — 
Yet  mark  how,  ordered  by  a  righteous  God, 
His  skill  becomes  at  once  his  chastisement  and  heaUng  rod  ! 


-■o 


A  steel-tipped  dart  drawn  back 
And  released  with  a  spring, 

And  you  trace  its  fluttering  track- 
Like  a  bird  on  the  wing  — 
Whizz  ! 


90  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

How  it  staggers  when  its  targe  is  won  ! 
Whizz  !  whizz  ! 
Feathered  mischief  that  it  is. 


! 


A  curhng  pufF  of  smoke, 

And  a  quick  httle  flhsh,  || 

Then  the  viewless  bullet  spoke 
Its  message  with  a  rash 
Ping  ! 
And  the  vicious  thing  its  work  has  done. 
Ping  !  ping ! 
Cruel  little  leaden  thing. 

A  rolling  coil  of  smoke 

And  scathing  gush  of  fire, 
Then  the  cannon's  roar  outbroke 
In  a  howl  of  death-desire  — 
Bang  ! 
And  the  bloody  cleaving  ball  speeds  on. 
Bang  !  bang ! 
How  the  mowing  u-on  sang  ! 

A  shrouding  pall  of  smoke, 
A  winding-sheet  of  flame. 
Then  the  splitting  thunder-stroke 
That  stops  the  deadly  game  — 
Boom  ! 
And  the  thing  whate'er  opposed  is  gone. 

Granite,  iron  ramparts,  all, 
Swept  as  cobwebs  from  the  wall ; 
Defence's  utmost  strength 
O'ermatched  by  Power  at  length,  — 
Even  War  has  met  its  doom, 
In  that  Boom  ! 
W^hizz  !  Ping  !  Bang  !  Boom  ! 
First  units  fall,  then  sheaves,  then  all 's  a  tomb. 


THE    PILGRIMS.  91 

Thanks  for  that  tomb,  for  from  it  shall  arise 

The  spirit  of  a  Universal  Peace  ! 
To  bid  just  Reason  her  true  place  assume, 
Right  from  brute  Might's  supremacy  release, 
And  by  the  deadliness  of  war,  make  war  itself  to  cease  ! 


THE  PILGRIMS.  — J.  G.  Whittier. 

A  WORTHY  New  England  deacon  once  described  a  brother 
in  the  church  as  a  very  good  man  Godward,  but  rather 
hard  manward.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  some  very  satisfac- 
tory steps  have  been  taken  in  the  latter  dii-ection,  at  least, 
since  the  days  of  the  Pilgrims.  Our  age  is  tolerant  of  creed 
and  dogma,  broader  in  its  sympathies,  more  keenly  sensitive 
to  temporal  need,  and  practically  recognizing  the  brotherhood 
of  the  race  ;  wherever  a  cry  of  suffering  is  heard,  its  response 
is  quick  and  generous.  It  has  aljolished  slavery,  and  is  lift- 
ing woman  from  world-old  degradation  to  equality  with  man 
before  the  law.  Our  criminal  codes  no  longer  embody  the 
maxim  of  barbarism,  "  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth,"  but  have  regard  not  only  for  the  safety  of  the  com- 
munity, but  to  the  reform  and  well-being  of  the  criminj^l. 
All  the  more,  however,  for  this  amiable  tenderness  do  we 
need  the  counterpoise  of  a  strong  sense  of  justice.  With  our 
sympathy  for  the  wrong-doer  we  need  the  old  Puritan  and 
Quaker  hatred  of  wrong-doing;  with  our  just  tolerance  of 
men  and  opinions  a  righteous  abhorrence  of  sin.  All  the 
more  for  the  sweet  humanities  and  Christian  liberalism  which, 
in  drawing  men  nearer  to  each  other,  are  increasing  the  sum 
of  social  influences  for  good  or  evil,  we  need  the  bracing  at- 
mosphere, healthful,  if  austere,  of  the  old  moralities.  Indi- 
vidual and  social  duties  are  quite  as  imperative  now  as  when 
they  were  minutel}''  specified  in  statute-books  and  enforced 
by  penalties  no  longer  admissible.  It  is  well  that  stocks, 
whippiug-post,  and  duckiug-stool  are  now  only  matters  of  tra- 
dition ;  but  the  honest  reprobation  of  vice  and  crime  which 


92  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

■  they  symbolized  should  by  no  means  perish  with  them.  The 
true  life  of  a  nation  is  in  its  personal  morality,  and  no  excel- 
lence of  constitution  and  laws  can  avail  much  if  the  people 
lack  purity  and  integrity.  Culture,  art,  refinement,  care  for 
our  own  comfort  and  that  of  others,  are  all  well ;  but  truth, 
honor,  reverence,  and  fidelity  to  duty  are  indispensable. 

The  Pilgrims  wei'e  right  in  affirming  the  paramount  author- 
ity of  the  law  of  God.  If  they  erred  in  seeking  that  au- 
thoritative law,  and  jjassed  over  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  for 
the  stern  Hebraisms  of  Moses;  if  they  hesitated  in  view  of 
the  largeness  of  Christian  liberty ;  if  they  seemed  unwilling 
to  accept  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  good  tidings,  —  let  us 
not  forget  that  it  was  the  mistake  of  men  who  feared  more 
than  they  dared  to  hope,  whose  estimate  of  the  exceeding 
awfulness  of  sin  caused  them  to  dwell  upon  God's  vengeance 
rather  than  his  compassion ;  and  whose  dread  of  evil  was  so 
great  that,  in  shutting  their  hearts  against  it,  they  sometimes 
shut  out  the  good.  It  is  well  for  us  if  we  have  learned  to 
listen  to  the  sweet  persuasion  of  the  Beatitudes ;  but  there 
ai'e  crises  in  all  lives  which  require  also  the  emphatic  "Thou 
shalt  not  "  of  the  Decalogue  which  the  founders  wrote  on  the 
gate-posts  of  their  commonwealth. 

Let  us,  then,  be  thankful  for  the  assurances  which  the  last 
few  years  have  afforded  us  that 

"  The  Pilgrim  spirit  is  not  dead, 
But  walks  in  noon's  broad  lighf" 

We  have  seen  it  in  the  faith  and  trust  which  no  circumstances 
could  shake,  in  heroic  self-sacrifice,  in  entire  consecration  to 
duty.  The  fathers  have  lived  in  their  sons.  Have  we  not 
all  known  the  Winthrops  and  Brewsters,  the  Saltonstalls  and 
Sewalls,  of  old  times,  in  gubernatorial  chairs,  in  legislative 
halls,  around  winter  ca,mp-fires,  in  the  slow  martyrdoms  of 
prison  and  hospital  ?  The  great  struggle  through  which  we 
have  passed  has  taught  us  how  much  we  owe  to  the  men  and 
Avomen  of  the  Plymouth  Colon}-,  —  the  noblest  ancestry  that 
ever  a  people  looked  back  to  with  love  and  reverence.  Honor, 
then,  to  the  Pilgrims  !     Let  their  memory  be  green  forever  ! 


KNOCKED   ABOUT.  93 


KNOCKED   ABOUT.  —  Daniel  Connolly. 

WHY  don't  I  work  1     Well,  sir,  will  you. 
Right  here  on  the  spot,  give  me  suthin'  to  do  ] 
Work  !     Why,  sir,  I  don't  want  no  more 
'N  a  chance  in  any  man's  shop  or  store ; 
That 's  what  I  'm  lookin'  for  every  day, 
But  thar  ain't  no  jobs ;  well,  what  d'  ye  say  1 
Hain't  got  nothin'  at  present  !     Just  so ; 
That 's  how  it  always  is,  I  know  ! 

Fellers  like  me  ain't  wanted  much  ; 
Folks  are  gen' rally  jealous  of  such  ; 
Thinks  they  ain't  the  right  sort  o'  stuff,  — 
Blessed  if  it  is  n't  a  kind  o'  rough 
On  a  man  to  have  folks  hintin'  belief 
That  he  ain't  to  be  trusted  more  'n  a  thief, 
When  p'r'aps  his  fingers  are  cleaner  far 
'N  them  o'  chaps  that  talk  so  are  ! 

Got  a  look  o'  the  sea  1     Well,  I  'xpect  that 's  so ; 

Had  a  hankerin'  that  way  some  years  ago, 

And  run  off ;  I  shipped  in  a  whaler  fust, 

And  got  cast  away  ;  but  that  warn't  the  wust ; 

Took  fire,  sir,  next  time,  we  did,  and  —  well, 

We  blazed  up  till  everything  standin'  fell. 

And  then  me  and  Tom  —  my  mate  —  and  some  iBorb, 

Got  off,  with  a  notion  of  goin'  ashore. 

But  thar  warn't  no  shore  to  see  round,  that, 

So  we  drifted  and  drifted  everywLar 

For  a  week,  and  then  all  but  Tom  and  me 

Was  food  for  the  sharks  or  down  in  the  sea. 

But  we  prayed  —  me  and  Tom  —  the  best  we  could. 

For  a  sail.     It  come,  wnd  at  last  we  stood 

On  old  arth  once  more,  and  the  captain  told 

Us  we  was  ashore  in  the  land  o'  gold. 


94  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Gold  !     We  did  n't  get  much.     But  we  struck 

For  the  mines,  of  course,  and  tried  our  hick. 

'T  Tvarn't  bad  at  the  start,  but  things  went  wrong 

Pooty  soon,  for  one  night  thar  come  along, 

While  we  was  asleep,  some  redskin  chaps, 

And  they  made  things  lively  round  thar  —  perhaps  ! 

Anyliow  we  left  mighty  quick  —  Tom  and  me. 

And  we  did  n't  go  back,  —  kind  o'  risky,  yer  see  ! 

By'm-by,  sir,  the  war  come  on,  and  then 

We  'listed.     Poor  Tom  !  I  was  nigh  him  when 

It  all  happened.     He  looked  up  and  sez,  sez  he, 

"  Bill,  it  's  come  to  partin'  'twixt  you  and  me, 

Old  chap.     I  hain't  much  to  leave  —  here,  this  knife 

Stand  to  your  colors.  Bill,  while  you  have  life !  " 

That  was  all.  —  Yes,  got  wounded  myself,  sir,  here, 

And  —  I  'm  pensioned  on  water  and  air  a  year  ! 

It  ain't  much  to  thank  for  that  I  'm  alive, 
Knockin'  about  like  this  —     What,  a  five  ! 
That  's  suthin'  han'some,  now,  that  is.     I  'm  blest 
If  things  don't  quite  frequent  turn  out  for  the  best 
Arter  all !     A  V  !     Hi !    Luck  !     It 's  far  more  ! 
Mister,  I  kind  o'  liked  the  looks  o'  your  store. 
You  're  a  trump,  sir,  a  reg  —     Eh  ]     0,  all  right ! 
I  'm  off,  —  but  you  are,  sir,  a  trump,  honor  bright  ! 


THE   LABORER.  —  William  D.  Gallagher. 

STAND  up  —  erect !     Thou  hast  the  form 
And  likeness  of  thy  God  !  —  who  more  1 
A  soul  as  dauntless  'mid  the  storm 
Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 
And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  1  —  Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 


THE  LABORER.  95 

As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 
That  with  Creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  1  the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
The  great,  wlio  coldly  pass  thee  by, 
"With  prond  step  and  averted  eye  1^ 

Nay  !    Nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  theel 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 


'o^ 


No  ;  —  unciu'bed  passions,  low  desires, 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect, 
Death,  in  the  bi-east's  consuming  fires 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 

Forever,  till  thus  checked,  — 

These  are  thy  enemies,  —  thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot, 
Thy  labor  and  thy  life  accursed  : 
0,  stand  erect !  and  from  them  burst, 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy  ! 
The  great !  —  what  better  they  than  thou  1 
As  theirs  is  not  thy  will  as  free  1 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 
Neglected  to  endow  1 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not,  —  't  is  but  dust ! 

Nor  place,  —  uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  bast  which,  with  thy  crust 


96  PUBLIC  AND  TARLOR  READINGS. 

And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 
Of  both,  —  a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  bah, 
True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then  ;  that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  well  be  trod. 


THE   GRAY   FOREST   EAGLE.— A.  B.  Street. 

WITH  storm-daring  pinion,  and  sun-gazing  eye, 
The  Gray  Forest  Eagle  is  King  of  the  sky  ! 
O,  little  he  loves  the  green  valley  of  flowers, 
Where  sunshine  and  song  cheer  the  bright  summer  hours, 
But  the  dark,  gloomy  gorge,  where  down  j)lunges  the  foam 
Of  the  fierce,  rocky  torrent,  he  claims  as  his  home  ; 
There  he  blends  his  keen  shriek  with  the  roar  of  the  flood, 
And  the  many-voiced  sounds  of  the  blast-smitten  wood. 

A  fitful  red  glaring,  a  low,  rumbling  jar, 
Proclaim  the  Storm-Demon,  yet  raging  afar ; 
The  black  cloud  strides  upward,  the  lightning  more  red, 
And  the  roll  of  the  thunder,  more  deep  and  more  dread  : 
The  Gray  Forest  Eagle,  where,  where  has  he  sped  1 
Does  he  shrink  to  his  eyry,  and  shiver  with  dread  1 
Does  the  glare  blind  his  eyes  1     Has  the  terrible  blast 
On  the  wing  of  the  Sky-King  a  fear-fetter  cast  1 

0  no,  the  brave  Eagle  !  he  thinks  not  of  fright ; 
The  wrath  of  the  tempest  but  rouses  delight ; 
To  the  flash  of  the  lightning  his  eye  casts  a  gleam, 
To  the  shriek  of  the  wild  blast  he  echoes  his  scream, 
And  with  front  like  a  warrior  that  speeds  to  the  fray, 
And  a  clapping  of  pinions,  he  's  up  and  away  ! 
Away,  0  away,  soars  the  fearless  and  free  ! 


THE  GRAY  FOEEST  EAGLE.  97 

What  recks  he  the  sky's  strife  1  —  its  monarch  is  he  ! 
The  lightuing  darts  round  him,  —  undaunted  his  sight ; 
The  bhist  sweeps  against  him,  —  imwavered  his  flight ; 
High  upwai'd,  still  upwtu'd  he  wheels,  till  his  form 
Is  lost  in  the  dark  scowling  gloom  of  the  storm. 

The  tempest  glides  o'er  with  its  terrible  train, 

And  the  splendor  of  sunshine  is  glowing  again  ; 

And  full  on  the  form  of  the  tempest  in  flight, 

The  rainbow's  magnificence  gladdens  the  sight ! 

The  Gray  Forest  Eagle  !  0,  where  is  he  now, 

While  the  sky  wears  the  smile  of  its  God  on  its  brow  1 

There  's  a  dark  floating  spot  by  yon  cloud's  pearly  wreath, 

With  the  speed  of  the  arrow  't  is  shooting  beneath  ; 

Down,  nearer  and  nearer,  it  draws  to  the  gaze,  — 

Now  over  the  rainbow,  —  now  blent  with  its  blaze  ; 

'T  is  the  Eagle,  —  the  Gray  Forest  Eagle  !  —  once  more 

He  sweeps  to  his  eyry,  —  his  journey  is  o'er  ! 

Time  whirls  round  his  circle,  his  years  roll  away, 
But  the  Gray  Forest  Eagle  minds  little  his  sway ; 
The  child  spurns  its  buds  for  youth's  thorn-hidden  bloora 
.Seeks  manhood's  bright  phantoms,  finds  age  and  a  tomb; 
But  the  Eagle's  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbowed, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud. 

An  emblem  of  Freedom,  stern,  haughty,  and  high, 
Is  the  Gray  Forest  Eagle,  that  King  of  the  sky  ! 
When  his  shadows  steal  black  o'er  the  empires  of  kings. 
Deep  terror,  —  deep  heart-shaking  terror,  —  he  brings ; 
Where  wicked  oppression  is  armed  for  the  weak. 
There  rustles  his  pinion,  there  echoes  his  shriek  ; 
His  eye  flames  with  vengeance,  he  sweeps  on  his  way, 
And  his  talons  are  bathed  in  the  blood  of  his  prey. 

O  that  Eagle  of  Freedom  !  when  cloud  upon  cloud 
Swathed  the  sky  of  my  own  native  land  with  a  shroud, 
5  o 


98  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

When  lightnings  gleamed  fiercely,  and  thunderbolts  rung, 
How  proud  to  the  tempest  those  pinions  were  flung  ! 
Though  the  wild  blast  of  battle  rushed  fierce  through  the  air 
With  darkness  and  dread,  still  the  Eagle  was  there ; 
Unquaihng,  still  speeding,  his  swift  flight  was  on, 
Till  the  rainbow  of  Peace  crowned  the  victory  won. 

0,  that  Eagle  of  Freedom  !  age  dims  not  his  eye, 
He  has  seen  earth's  mortality  spring,  bloom,  and  die  ! 
He  has  seen  the  strong  nations  rise,  flourish,  and  fall ; 
He  mocks  at  time's  changes,  he  triumphs  o'er  all ; 
He  has  seen  our  own  land  with  wild  forests  o'erspread, 
He  sees  it  with  sunshine  and  joy  on  its  head ; 
And  his  presence  will  bless  this  his  own  chosen  clime, 
Till  the  Archangel's  fiat  is  set  upon  Time. 


I 


WHEN  MARY  AVAS   A  LASSIE. 

THE  maple-trees  are  tinged  with  red, 
The  birch  with  golden  yellow  ; 
And  high  above  the  orchard  wall 
Hang  apples,  rich  and  mellow ; 
And  that  's  the  way,  through  yonder  lane 

That  looks  so  still  and  grassy,  — 
The  way  I  took  one  Sunday  eve, 
WTien  Mary  was  a  lassie. 

You  'd  hardly  think  that  patient  face, 

That  looks  so  thin  and  faded, 
Was  once  the  very  sweetest  one 

That  ever  bonnet  shaded  ; 
But  when  I  went  tliroxigh  yonder  lane. 

That  looks  so  still  and  grassy. 
Those  eyes  were  bright,  those  cheeks  were  fair. 

When  Mary  was  a  lassie. 


THE   PIANO   MANIA.  99 

But  many  a  tender  sorrow, 

And  many  a  patient  care, 
Have  made  those  fuiTows  on  the  face 

That  used  to  be  so  fair. 
Four  times  to  yonder  churchyard, 

Through  the  lane,  so  still  and  grassy, 
We  've  borne  and  laid  away  our  dead. 

Since  Mary  was  a  lassie. 

And,  as  you  see,  I  've  grown  to  love 

The  wrinkles  more  than  roses  ; 
Earth's  winter  flowers  are  sweeter  far 

Than  all  spring's  dewy  posies  : 
They  '11  carry  us  through  yonder  lane 

That  looks  so  still  and  grassy, 
Adown  the  lane  I  used  to  go 

When  Mary  was  a  lassie. 


THE   PIANO   MANIA.  —  Jennie  June. 

THERE  is  no  social  disease  so  widespread,  so  virulent,  and 
so  fatal  in  its  attack  as  the  piano  mania.  Before  a  girl 
is  bom,  nowadays,  she  is  predestined  to  sit  and  exact  dreadful 
screechiugs  and  wailings  from  some  unhappy  instrument  for 
at  least  ten  years  of  her  natural  life-  No  question  as  to 
whether  she  possesses  an  ear,  and  no  consideration  for  the  ears 
of  other  people,  is  permitted  to  interfere  with  the  decree, 
which  is  irrevocable  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians, 
that  "  Katy  "  or  "  Lucindy,"  as  the  case  may  be,  "  must  play 
the  piano."  The  poor  thing  may  be  a  natural-born  house- 
keeper, with  a  genius  for  sweeping  and  dusting,  washing  and 
baking,  but  with  no  more  perception  of  chords  and  cadences 
than  of  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Still  she  will  not  be  per- 
mitted to  follow  her  natm-al  bent  because  it  is  so  horribly  vul- 
gar.    She  will  be  wept  over,  scolded,  and  ft-etted  at,  and  any 


100         PUBUC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS.   • 

lazy,  fine  lady,  sister,  or  cousin  held  up  as  an  example  of  gen- 
tility. 

To  be  able  to  play  the  piano  in  company  is  the  sine  qua  non  of 
many  foolish,  fond  mothers'  hopes,  who  look  back  with  regret 
on  their  own  limited  chances  for  education,  and  are  therefore 
apt  sadly  to  oveiTate  the  value  of  what  are  called  accom- 
plishments. Playing  the  piano  is  undoubtedly  a  very  good 
thing  when  it  is  well  done,  and  by  a  person  who  possesses  musi- 
cal taste ;  but  otherwise  it  is  only  a  torture  for  a  sensitive 
ear  to  listen  to  it.  Jingle,  jingle,  jingle  !  thump,  thump, 
thump  !  Who  has  not  shivered  and  winced,  and  tried  to  ap- 
pear amiable  through  the  interminable  hours  of  a  small  even- 
ing-party, while  some  youthful  tormentor,  harassed  into  the 
display  by  stupid  friends,  was  vigorously  pounding  out  a 
miscellaneous  assortment  of  battles  and  marches,  songs  and 
quadrilles,  waltzes  and  opera,  without  the  slightest  notion  con- 
cerning them,  except  that  certain  keys  in  the  piano  corre- 
spond to  certain  notes  in  the  book. 

Excepting  for  evening  parlor  dances,  the  piano  should  never 
be  played  without  accompaniment  of  a  voice,  unless  by  a 
Thalberg,  and  even  then  only  a  few  will  be  found  to  care  en- 
thusiastically for  the  mere  science  or  grace  of  execution  j  and 
if  this  is  true  of  the  professor  in  the  art,  how  much  pleasure 
is  it  supposed  can  be  obtained  from  hearing  the  monotonous  or 
spasmodic  thrumming  of  a  girl,  whose  entire  capacity  for 
music  has  been  scolded  or  cajoled  into  her,  and  who  would 
much  rather  be  employed  in  doing  something  else,  even 
though  it  were  sweeping  or  washing  dishes  ! 

If  the  knowledge  of  the  piano  were  easily  acquired  and  re- 
tained, the  objections  against  this  universal  passion  would  lose 
much  of  their  force ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  it  wastes  so  much 
of  the  valuable  time  in  many  young  girls'  lives  that  could  be 
turned  to  good  accoixnt,  that  it  becomes  absolute  sin  ;  and 
what  real  use  do  they  make  of  it  after  all  1  How  many 
young  women  who  were  supposed  to  possess  musical  talents 
have  made  the  remark,  "  0,  I  have  never  touched  the  piano 
since  I  was  married  !  "  —  an  exaggerated  statement,  which  soon 
becomes  a  literal  truth. 


FONTEXOY.  101 

The  truth  is,  that  "playing  the  piano"  don't  pay,  unless  a 
certain  amount  of  musical  genius  is  developed,  and  a  voice. 
Any  quantity  of  girls  could  perfect  themselves  in  other  and 
quite  as  attractive  branches  of  a  "polite  education"  for 
which  they  have  a  taste,  and  prepare  to  become  good  wives 
and  mothers  in  the  time  which  is  uselessly  spent  in  endeavor- 
ing to  make  them  "  play  the  piano." 

But  there  is  little  hope  that  it  will  be  so.  Fathers  will 
continue  to  gratify  their  pride  and  vanity  by  buying  second- 
hand pianos  instead  of  sewing-machines,  and  mothers  wiU 
m-ge  slipshod  daughters  to  sit  down  to  them,  instead  of  teach- 
ing them  to  mend  stockings.  The  sig-nor's  bill  will  be  pre- 
feired  to  the  grocer's,  because  "  the  girls  ''must  have  the  advan- 
tage of  the  best,  —  that  is  to  say,  the  most  expensive  masters, 
—  and  so  they  are  taught  lessons  in  music,  esti-avagance,  dis- 
honesty, and  personal  neglect,  all  at  the  same  time.  Sm-ely 
a  cheap  way  of  acquhing  so  much  that  is  made  available  in 
after  life,  besides  learning  to  play  on  the  piano. 


FONTEXOY.  —  Thomas  Davis. 

THRICE,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  English  column 
failed, 
And  twice  the  lines  of  St.  Antoine  the  Dutch  in  vain  assailed ; 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks,  and  Dutch  auxiliaiy. 
As,   vainly,  through    De    Barri's   wood    the    British   soldiers 

burst. 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and  dis- 
persed. 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve  his  latest  chance  to  try. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride, 
And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at  even- 
tide. 


102         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  EEADDsGS. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  —  Lord  Hay  is  at  their 

head  ; 
Steady  they  step  adowTi  the  slope,  —  steady  they  climb  the 

hill ; 
Steady  they  load,  —  steady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward 

still, 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a  furnace  blast. 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets  showering 

fast ; 
And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose,  and  kept  their  course, 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hostile 

force ; 
Past  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks, 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland's  ocean 

banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush 
round ; 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew  the 
ground  ; 

Bomb-shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on  they 
marched  jind  fired,  — 

Fast  from  each  volley  gi-enadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

"  Push  on,  my  household  cavalry  !  "   King  Louis  madly  cried  ; 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock,  —  npt  unavenged 
they  died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod,  —  King  Louis  turns 
his  rein  ; 

"  IS^ot  yet,  roy  liege,"  Saxe  interposed,  "  the  Irish  troops  re- 
main "  ; 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a  Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fi-esh,  vehement,  and  true. 

"  Lord  Clai'e,"  he  says,  "  you  have  your  wish,  there  are  your 

Saxon  foes  ! " 
The  iLarshal  almost  smiles  to  see  how  furiously  he  goes ! 


FONTEXOY.  103 

How  fierce  the  look  those  exiles  wear,  who  're  won't  to  be  so 


gay, 


The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to- 
day, — 

The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ  could 
dry, 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's 
parting  cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  overi- 
thrown, 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 

Eushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles 
were. 

O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  commands, 

"  Fix  bavonets  —  charoe  !  "  Like  mountain  storm  rush  on 
these  fiery  bands. 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  mustering  aU  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a  gal- 
lant show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle-wind, 

Their  bayonets  the  breaker's  foam  \  like  rocks,  the  men  be- 
hind ! 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when,  through  the  surging 
smoke. 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish 
broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza  ! 

"  Kcvcnge  !  remember  Limerick  !  dash  down  the  Sacsanach  !  " 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a  fold,  when  mad  with  hunger's  pang, 
Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang ; 
Bright  was  their  steel,  't  is  bloody  now,  their  guns  arc  filled 

with  gore ; 
Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and  trampled  flags 

they  tore  :  ,   • 


104         PUBLIC  AXD  PAELOR  READINGS. 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied, 

staggered,  fled  — 
The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead. 
Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack, 
"While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 
With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand,  —  the  field  is  fought  and 

won ! 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW.— J.  W.  Watson. 

OTHE  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  earth  below ; 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet, 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming  along ; 
Beautiful  snow ;  it  can  do  no  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek ; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel,  gentle  as  love  ! 

0  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 
How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go ! 
Whirling  about  in  the  maddening  fun. 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by ; 
It  lights  on  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye  ! 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow, 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow  ! 


THE   SNOW.  105 

How  tlie  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song  !  • 
How  the  gay  sledges,  like  meteors,  flash  by, 
Bright  for  the  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go, 
Over  the  crust  of  the  beautiful  snow  ; 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by, 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of  feet, 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  in  the  street. 

Once  T  was  pure  as  the  snow  — -  but  I  fell : 
Fell  like  the  snow-flakes  from  heaven  —  to  hell ; 
Fell  to  be  trampled  as  filth  of  the  street ; 
Fell  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on  and  beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 
Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy. 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread. 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !  have  I  fallen  so  low  1 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  the  beautiful  snow. 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystal,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace,  — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charms  of  my  face  ! 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  abont  me,  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that's  pure  but  the  beautiful  snow. 
5* 


106         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinnei'  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night  comes  again, 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  desperate  brain ! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone. 
Too  wicked  for  a  prayer,  too  weak  for  a  moan, 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
■  Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down, 
To  lie,  and  so  die  in  my  terrible  woe. 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful  snow. 


LOYE   LIGHTENS   LABOR. 

A  GOOD  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn, 
And  thought  with  a  nervous  dread 
Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  be  washed,  and  more 

Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 
There  's  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the  field, 

And  the  children  to  fix  away 
To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and  churned; 
And  all  to  be  done  this  day. 

It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be  ; 
There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  besides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 
And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said  : 
"  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  be  in  no  haste  to  wed  ! " 

"  Jennie,  what  do  you  think  I  told  Ben  Brown  ] " 
Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 


THE   RING.  107 

And  a  flush  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow, 

And  his  eyes  half  bashfully  fell. 
"  It  was  this,"  he  said,  and,  coming  near, 

He  smiled,  and,  stooping  down, 
Kissed  her  cheek,  —  "  'T  was  this  :  that  you  were  the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town  !  " 

The  former  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the  wife, 

In  a  smiling  and  absent  way. 
Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 

She  'd  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 
And  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the  clothes 

Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was  sweet 

And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

'  Just  think,"  the  children  all  called  in  a  breath, 

'•'  Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea  ! 
He  would  n't,  I  know,  if  he  only  had 

As  happy  a  home  as  we." 
The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife  smiled 

To  herself,  as  she  softly  said  : 
"  'T  is  so  sweet  to  labor  for  those  we  love, 

It 's  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed  !  " 


THE  RING.  —  G.  E.  Lessing. 
Translated  by  Miss  Frothingham. 

IN  gray  antiquity  there  lived  a  man 
In  Eastern  lands,  who  had  received  a  ring 
Of  priceless  worth  from  a  beloved  hand. 
Its  stone,  an  opal,  flashed  a  hundi-cd  colors. 
And  had  the  secret  power  of  giving  favor. 
In  sight  of  God  and  man,  to  him  who  wore  it 
With  a  believing  heart.     What  wi^nder,  then, 


108         PUDLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

This  Eastern  man  would  never  put  the  ring 
From  oflf  his  finger,  and  should  so  provide 
That  to  his  house  it  be  preserved  forever  'i 
Such  was  the  case.     Unto  the  best-beloved 
Among  his  sons  he  left  the  ring,  enjoining 
That  he  in  turn  bequeath  it  to  the  son 
Who  should  be  dearest ;  and  the  dearest  ever, 
In  virtue  of  the  ring,  without  regard 
To  birth,  be  of  the  house  the  prince  and  head. 

From  son  to  son  the  ring,  descending,  came 
To  one,. the  sire  of  three  ;  of  whom  all  three 
Were  eqiially  obedient ;  whom  all  three 
He  therefore  must  with  equal  love  regard. 
And  yet,  from  time  to  time,  now  this,  now  that. 
And  now  the  third,  —  as  each  alone  was  by, 
The  others  not  dividing  his  fond  hearts- 
Appeared  to  him  the  worthiest  of  the  ring  ; 
Which  then,  with  loving  weakness,  he  would  promise 
To  each  in  turn.     Thus  it  continued  long. 
But  he  must  die  ;  and  then  the  loving  father 
Was  sore  perplexed.     It  grieved  him  thus  to  wound 
Two  faithful  sons  who  trusted  in  his  word  ; 
But  what  to  do  1     In  secrecy  he  calls 
An  artist  to  him,  and  commands  of  him 
Two  other  rings,  the  pattern  of  his  own  ; 
And  bids  him  neither  cost  nor  pains  to  spare 
To  make  them  like,  precisely  like  to  that. 
The  artist's  skill  succeeds.  ^  He  brings  the  rings, 
And  e'en  the  father  cannot  tell  his  own. 
Believed  and  joyful  summons  he  his  sons, 
Each  by  himself ;  to  each  one  by  himself 
He  gives  his  blessing,  and  his  ring,  —  and  dies. 
But  bring  your  story  to  an  end.     'T  is  ended. 
For  what  remains  would  tell  itself.     The  father 
Was  scarcely  dead,  when  each  brings  forth  his  ring, 
And  claims  the  headship.     Questioning  ensues, 


THE   RING.  109 


Strife,  and  appeal  to  law ;  but  all  in  vain. 
The  genuine  i"ing  was  not  to  be  distinguished, 
As  undistinguishable  as  with  us 
The  true  reli.u'iou. 


'o^ 


As  I  have  said 
The  sons  appealed  to  law,  and  each  took  oath 
Before  the  judge,  that  from  his  fixther's  hand 
He  had  the  ring,  —  as  was  indeed  the  truth,  — ' 
And  had  received  his  promise  long  before, 
One  day  the  ring,  with  all  its  privileges. 
Should  be  his  own,  —  as  was  not  less  the  truth. 
The  ftither  could  not  have  been  false  to  him, 
Each  one  maintained  ;  and  I'ather  than  allow 
Upon  the  memory  of  so  dear  a  father 
Such  stain  to  rest,  he  must  against  his  brothers, 
Though  gladly  he  would  nothing  but  the  best 
Believe  of  them,  bring  charge  of  treachery  ; 
Means  would  he  find  the  traitors  to  expose. 
And  be  revenofed  on  them. 


*o^ 


Thus  spoke  the  judge  :  Produce  your  father 
At  once  before  me,  else  from  my  tribunal 
Do  I  dismiss  you.     Think  you  I  am  here 
To  guess  your  riddles  1     Either  would  you  wait 
Until  the  genuine  ring  shall  speak  1  —  But  hold  ! 
A  magic  power  in  the  true  ring  resides, 
As  I  am  told,  to  make  its  wearer  loved. 
Pleasing  to  God  and  man.     Let  tliat  decide, 
For  in  the  false  can  no  such  virtue  lie. 
Which  one  among  you,  then,  do  two  love  best  1 
Speak  !     Ai-e  you  silent  1     Work  the  rings  but  backward, 
Not  outward  ]     Loves  each  one  himself  the  best  ? 
Then  cheated  cheats  are  all  of  you  !     The  rings, 
All  three,  are  false.     The  genuine  ring  was  lost ; 
And  to  conceal,  supply  the  loss,  the  father 
Made  thrco  in  place  of  one. 


110  PUBLIC   AXD  PARLOR   READINGS. 

Go,  therefore,  said  the  judge,  unless  my  counsel 
You  'd  have  in  place  of  sentence.     It  were  this  : 
Accept  the  case  exactly  as  it  stands. 
Had  each  his  ring  directly  from  his  father, 
Let  each  believe  his  own  is  genuine. 
'T  is  possible  your  father  would  no  longer 
His  house  to  one  ring's  tyranny  subject ; 
And  certain  that  all  three  of  you  he  loved, 
Loved  equally,  since  two  he  would  not  humble 
That  one  might  be  exalted.     Let  each  one 
To  his  unbought,  impartial  love  aspire  ; 
Each  with  the  others  vie  to  bring  to  light 
The  virtue  of  the  stone  within  his  ring ; 
Let  gentleness,  a  hearty  love  of  peace, 
Beneficence,  and  perfect  trust  in  God, 
Come  to  its  help.     Then,  if  the  jewel's  power 
Among  your  children's  children  be  revealed, 
I  bid  you,  in  a  thousand  thousand  years, 
Again  before  this  bar.     A  wiser  man 
Than  I  shall  occupy  this  seat,  and  speak. 
Go  !     Thus  the  modest  judge  dismissed  them. 


THE  MERRY  SOAP-BOILER. 

A  STEADY  and  a  skilful  toiler, 
John  got  his  bread  as  a  soap-boiler ; 
Earned  all  he  wished,  —  his  heart  was  light, 
He  worked  and  sang  from  morn  till  night. 
E'en  during  meals  his  notes  were  heard, 
And  to  his  beer  were  oft  preferred ; 
At  breakfast,  and  at  supper  too,- 
His  throat  had  double  work  to  do. 
He  oftener  sang  than  said  his  prayers, 
And  dropped  asleep  while  humming  airs  ; 
Until  his  every  next-door  neighbor 


THE    MERRY    SOAP-BOILER.  Ill 

Had  learned  the  tunes  that  cheered  his  labor, 

And  every  passer-by  could  tell 

Where  merry  John  was  wont  to  dwell. 

At  reading  he  was  rather  slack, 

Studied  at  most  the  almanac, 

To  know  when  holidays  were  nigh. 

And  put  his  little  savings  by ; 

But  sang  the  more  on  vacant  days, 

To  waste  the  less  his  means  and  ways. 

'T  is  always  well  to  live  and  learn. 

The  owner  of  the  soap  concern  — 

A  fat  and  wealthy  burgomaster. 

Who  drank  his  hock  and  smoked  his  knaster, 

At  marketing  was  always  apter 

Than  any  prelate  in  the  chapter, 

And  thought  a  pheasant  in  sour-ki'out 

Superior  to  a  turkey-poult ; 

But  woke  at  times  before  daybreak 

With  heartburn,  gout,  or  liver-ache  — 

Oft  heard  our  skylark  of  the  garret 

Sing  to  his  slumber,  but  to  mar  it. 

He  sent  for  John  one  day,  and  said, 

"  What 's  your  year's  income  from  your  trade  1 " 

"  Master,  I  never  thought  of  counting 

To  what  m}^  earnings  are  amounting 

At  the  year's  end  ;   if  every  Monday 

I  've  paid  my  meat  and  drink  for  Sunday, 

And  something  in  the  box  unspent 

Remains  for  fuel,  clothes,  and  rent, 

I  've  husbanded  the  needful  scot, 

And  feel  quite  easy  with  my  lot. 

The  maker  of  the  almanac 

Must,  like  your  lordship,  know  no  lack, 

Else  a  red-letter,  carnlcss  day 

Would  oftcncr  be  struck  away." 


112         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  John,  you  've  been  long  a  faithful  fellow, 
Though  always  merry,  seldom  mellow. 
Take  this  rouleau  of  fifty  dollars,  — 
My  purses  glibly  slip  their  collars,  — 
But  before  breakfast  let  this  singing 
No  longer  in  my  ears  be  ringing  ; 
When  once  your  lips  and  eyes  unclose, 
I  must  forego  my  morning  doze." 

John  blushes,  bows,  and  stammers  thanks, 
And  steals  away  on  bended  shanks. 
Hiding  and  hugging  his  new  treasure, 
-  As  had  it  been  a  stolen  seizure. 
At  home  he  bolts  his  chamber-door, 
Views,  counts,  and  weighs  his  tinkhng  store, 
Nor  trusts  it  to  the  savings-box 
Till  he  has  sci-ewed  on  double  locks. 
His  dog  and  he  play  tricks  no  more, 
They  're  rival  watchmen  of  the  door. 
Small  wish  has  he  to  sing  a  word. 
Lest  thieves  should  climb  his  stair  unheard. 
At  length  he  finds,  the  more  he  saves, 
The  more  he  frets,  the  more  he  craves ; 
That  his  old  freedom  was  a  blessing 
HI  sold  for  all  he  's  now  possessing. 

One  day,  he  to  his  master  went 
And  carried  back  his  hoard  unspent. 
"  Master,"  says  he,  "  I  've  heard  of  old, 
Unblest  is  he  who  watches  gold. 
Take  back  your  present,  and  restore 
The  cheerfulness  I  knew  before. 
I  '11  take  a  room  not  quite  so  near, 
Out  of  your  worship's  reach  of  ear. 
Sing  at  my  pleasure,  laugh  at  sorrow, 
Enjoy  to-day,  nor  dread  to-morrow. 
Be  still  the  steady,  honest  toiler. 
The  merry  John,  the  old  soap-boiler." 


DEATH   OF   POOR   JO.  113 


DEATH   OF   POOR  Ja  —  Dickens. 

JO  is  very  glad  to  see  his  old  friend,  and  says,  -when  they 
are  left  alone,  that  he  takes  it  uncommon  kind  as  Mr. 
Saugsby  should  come  so  far  out  of  his  way  on  accounts  of  sich 
as  him.  Mr.  Snagsby,  touched  by  the  spectacle  before  him, 
immediately  lays  upon  the  table  half  a  crown,  — that  magic 
balm  of  his  for  all  kinds  of  wounds. 

"And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  my  poor  lad"?"  inquires  the 
stationer,  with  his  cough  of  sympathy. 

"  I  am  in  luck,  Mr.  Sangsby,  I  am,"  returns  Jo,  "  and  don't 
want  for  nothink.  I  'm  more  cumf  bier  nor  you  can't  think. 
Mr.  Sangsby !  I  'm  wery  sorry  that  I  done  it,  but  I  did  n't 
go  fur  to  do  it,  sir." 

The  stationer  softly  lays  down  another  half-crown,  and  asks 
him  what  it  is  that  he  is  so  soriy  for  having  done. 

"  Mr.  Sangsby, "-says  Jo,  "I  went  and  give  a  illness  to  the- 
lady  as  wos  and  yit  as  warn't  the  t'other  lady,  and  none  of  'em 
never  says  nothink  to  me  for  having  done  it,  on  accounts  of 
their  being  ser  good  and  my  having  been  s'  unfortnet.  The 
lady  come  herself  and  see  me  yesday,  and  she  ses,  '  Ah,  Jo  ! ' 
she  ses.  '  We  thought  we  'd  lost  you,  Jo  ! '  she  ses.  And  she 
sits  down  a  smilin'  so  quiet,  and  don't  pass  a  word  nor  yit  a 
look  upon  me  for  having  done  it,  she  don't,  and  I  turns  agin 
the  wall,  I  doos,  Mr.  Sangsby.  And  Mr.  Jarnders,  I  see  him 
forced  to  turn  away  his  own  self.  And  Mr.  Woodcot,  he  come 
fur  to  giv  me  somethink  for  to  ease  me,  wot  he  's  alius  a  doin' 
on  day  and  night,  and  wen  he  come  a  bendin'  over  me  and  a 
speakin'  up  so  bold,  I  see  his  tears  a  fallin',  Mr.  Sangsby." 

The  softened  stationer  deposits  another  half-crown  on  the 
table.  Nothing  less  than  a  repetition  of  that  infallible  remedy 
will  I'clieve  his  feelings. 

"  Wot  I  wos  a  thinkin'  on,  Mi-.  Sangsby,"  proceeds  Jo,  "wos, 
as  you  wos  able  to  write  wery  large,  p'r'ajjs  ] " 

"Yes,  Jo,  please  God,"  returns  the  stationer. 

"  Uncommon  precious  large,  p'r'aps  1 "  says  Jo,  with  eager- 
ness. H 


114         PUBLIC  AXD  PARLOK  READINGS. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  boy." 

Jo  laughs  with  pleasure.  "  "Wot  I  was  thinkin'  on  then,  Mr. 
Saugsby,  wos,  that  wen  I  was  moved  on  as  fur  as  ever  I  could 
go  and  could  n't  be  moved  no  furder,  whether  j^ou  might  be 
so  good,  p'r'aps,  as  to  write  out,  wery  large  so  that  any  one 
could  see  it  anywheres,  as  that  I  wos  wery  truly  hearty  sorry 
that  1  done  it.  and  that  I  never  went  fnr  to  do  it ;  and  that 
though  I  did  n't  know  nothink  at  all,  I  knowd  as  Mr.  Wood- 
cot  once  cried  over  it  and  wos  alius  grieved  over  it,  and  that 
I  hoped  as  he  'd  be  able  to  forgiv  me  in  his  mind.  If  the 
writin'  could  be  made  to  say  it  wery  large,  he  might." 

"  It  shall  say  it,  Jo.     Very  large." 

Jo  laughs  again.  "  Thank'ee,  Mr.  Sangsby.  It  'swery  kind 
of  you,  sir,  and  it  makes  me  more  cumf  bier  nor  T  was  afore." 

The  meek  little  stationer,  with  a  broken  and  unfinished 
cough,  slips  down  his  fourth  half-crown,  —  he  has  never  been 
so  close  to  a  case  requiring  so  many,  —  and  is  fain  to  depart. 
Atid  Jo  and  he  upon  this  little  earth  shall  meet  no  more. 
No  moi'e. 

For  the  caii;,  so  hard  to  di'aw,  is  near  its  journey's  end,  and 
drags  over  stony  ground.  All  round  the  clock,  it  labors  up 
the  broken  steeps,  shattered  and  wora.  Not  many  times  can 
the  sun  rise,  and  behold  it  still  upon  its  weary  road. 

Jo  is  in  a  sleep  or  stupor  to-day,  and  Allan  Woodcourt, 
newly  ari'ived,  stands  by  him,  looking  down,  upon  his  wasted 
form.  After  a  while,  he  softly  seats  himself  upon  the  bedside 
with  his  face  toward  him,  and  touches  his  chest  and  hearts 
The  cart  had  very  nearly  given  up,  but  labors  on  a  little 
more. 

*'  Well,  Jo  !     What  is  the  matter  1     Don't  be  frightened." 
"  I   thou«;ht,"   savs  J.o,   who  has   started,   and   is  looking 
round,  —  "I   thought   I  was  in  Tom-all-Alone's  agin.     An't 
there  nobody  here  but  you,  Mr.  Woodcot  1 " 
"Nobody." 

"  And  I  an't  took  back  to  Tom-all-Alone's.     Am  I,  sir  ?  "  ' 
"  No."    Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  "  I  'm  wery  thankful." 


DEATH   OF   POOR   JO.  115 

After  watching  him  closely  a  little  while,  Allan  puts  his 
mouth  very  near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a  low,  distinct 
voice,  — 

"Jo  !    Did  you  ever  know  a  prayer?" 

"  Never  knowd  nothink,  sir." 

"  Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer  1 " 

"  No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos  a  prayin' 
wunst  at  Mr.  Sangsby's,  and  I  heerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as 
if  he  wos  speakin'  to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a 
lot,  but  /  could  n't  make  out  nothink  on  it.  Different  times 
there  wos  other  genlmen  come  down  Tom-all-Alone's  a  prayin', 
but  they  all  mostly  sed  as  the  t'  other  wuns  prayed  wrong,  and 
all  mostly  sounded  to  be  a  talking  to  thcirselves,  or,  a  passing 
blame  on  the  t'  others,  and  not  a  talkin'  to  us.  We  never 
knowd  nothink.     /  never  knowd  what  it  wos  all  about." 

It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  say  this  ;  and  few  but  an 
experienced  and  attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing, 
understand  him.  After  a  short  relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor, 
he  makes,  of  a  sudden,  a  strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

*'  Staj',  Jo,  stay  !     AVhat  now  1 " 

"It  's  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin-ground,  sir," 
he  returns,  with  a  wild  look. 

"  Lie  down,  and  tell  me.     What  burying-ground,  Jo  1 " 

"  Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me  ;  wery  good 
to  me  indeed,  he  wos.  It  's  time  fur  me  to  go  down  to  that 
there  berryin-ground,  sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him. 
I  wants  to  go  there  and  be  berried.  He  used  fur  to  say  to 
me,  '  I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,'  he  ses.  I  wants  to  teU 
him  that  I  am  as  poor  as  him  now,  and  have  come  there  to 
be  laid  along  with  him." 

"  By  and  by,  Jo.     By  and  by." 

"  Ah  !  P Vaps  they  would  n't  do  it  if  I  wos  to  go  myself. 
But  will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  have  me 
laid  along  with  him  ]" 

"  I  will,  indeed." 

"  Thank'ee,  sir  !  Thank'ee,  sir !  They  '11  have  to  get  the-key 
of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in,  for  it  's  alius  locked. 


116         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

And  there  's  a  step  there,  as  I  used  fur  to  clean  with  my 
lu'oom.  It  's  turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is  there  any  hght 
a  comin'  1  " 

"  It  is  comino:  fast,  Jo." 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged 
road  is  very  near  its  end. 

"  Jo,  my  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I  'm  a  gropin',  —  a  gropin', 
—  let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand." 

"Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say  1 " 

"  I  'U  say  anythink  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I  knows  it 's  good." 

"  Our  Father." 

"  Our  Father  !  —  yes,  that 's  wery  good,  sir." 

"  Which  art  in  Heaven." 

"  Art  in  Heaven  —  is  the  light  a  comin',  sir  ] " 

"  It  is  close  at  hand.     Hallowed  be  thy  name  ! " 

"  Hallowed  be  — ■  thy  —  name  !  " 

The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted  way.     Dead ! 

Dead,  your  Majesty.  Dead,  my  lords  and  gentlemen.  Dead, 
Right  Reverends  and  Wrong  Reverends  of  every  order.  Dead, 
men  and  women,  born  with  heavenly  compassion  in  your 
hearts.     And  dying  thus  around  us  every  day  ! 


ADDRESS   OF   LEONIDAS.  —  Richard  Glover. 

HE  alone 
Remains  unshaken.     Rising,  he  displays 
His  godlike  presence.     Dignity  and  grace 
Adorn  his  frame,  and  manly  beauty,  joined 
With  strength  herculean.     On  his  aspect  shines 
Sublimest  virtue  and  desire  of  fame. 
Where  justice  gives  the  laurel ;  in  his  eye 
The  inextinguishable  spark,  which  fires 
The  souls  of  patriots  ;  while  his  brow  supports 
Undaimted  valor  and  contempt  of  death. 


ANNABEL   LEE.  117 

Serene  he  rose,  and  thus  addressed  the  throng : 
"  Why  this  astonishment  on  every  face, 
Ye  men  of  Sparta  1     Does  the  name  of  death 
Create  this  fear  and  wonder  1     0  my  friends  ! 
Why  do  we  labor  through  the  arduous  paths 
Which  lead  to  virtue  1     Fruitless  were  the  toil, 
Above  the  reach  of  human  feet  were  placed 
The  distant  summit,  if  the  fear  of  death 
Could  intercept  our  passage.     But  in  vain 
His  blackest  frowns  and  terrors  he  assumes 
To  shake  the  firmness  of  the  mind  which  knows 
That,  wanting  virtue,  life  is  pain  and  woe ; 
That,  wanting  liberty,  even  virtue  moiu-ns, 
And  looks  around  for  happiness  in  vain. 
Then  speak,  0  Sparta  !  and  demand  my  life ; 
My  heart,  exulting,  answers  to  thy  call, 
And  smiles  on  glorious  fate.     To  live  with  fame 
The  gods  allow  to  many  ;  but  to  die 
With  equal  lustre  is  a  blessing  Heaven 
Selects  from  all  the  choicest  boons  of  fate. 
And  with  a  sparing  hand  on  few  bestows." 
Salvation  thus  to  Spai'ta  he  proclaimed. 
Joy,  wrapped  awhile  in  admiration,  paused 
Suspending  praise  ;  nor  praise  at  last  resounds 
In  high  acclaim  to  rend  the  arch  of  Heaven ; 
A  reverential  murmur  breathes  applause. 


ANNABEL   LEE.  —  Edgar  A.  Poe. 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee. 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 


118         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

Our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  do'mi  under  the  sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 


For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  this  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 
And  so  all  the  night-tide  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea. 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


BOY   LOST.  119 


BOY  LOST. 

HE  had  black  eyes,  with  long  lashes,  red  cheeks,  and  hair 
almost  black  and  almost  curly.  He  wore  a  crimson 
plaid  jacket,  with  full  trousers  buttoned  on  j  had  a  habit  of 
whistling,  and  liked  to  ask  questions ;  was  accompanied  by  a 
small  black  dog.  It  is  a  long  while  now  since  he  disappeared. 
I  have  a  very  pleasant  house  and  much  company.  My  guests 
say,  "  Ah  !  it  is  pleasant  here  !  Everything  has  such  an 
orderly,  put-away  look,  —  nothing  about  under  foot,  no 
dirt ! " 

But  my  eyes  are  aching  for  the  sight  of  whittliugs  and  cut 
paper  upon  the  floor,  of  tumble-down  card-houses,  of  wooden 
sheep  and  cattle,  of  pop-guns,  bows  and  arrows,  whips,  tops, 
go-carts,  blocks,  and  trumpery.  I  want  to  see  boats  a-rigging, 
and  kites  a-making,  crumbles  on  the  carpet,  and  paste  spilt  on 
the  kitchen-table.  I  want  to  see  the  chairs  and  tables  turned 
the  wrong  way  about.  I  want  to  see  candy-making  and  corn- 
popping,  and  to  find  jack-knives  and  fish-hooks  among  my 
muslins.     Yet  these  things  used  to  fret  me  once. 

They  say,  "  How  quiet  you  are  here  !  Ah  !  one  here  may 
settle  his  brains  and  be  at  peace."  But  my  ears  are  aching 
for  the  pattering  of  little  feet,  for  a  hearty  shout,  a  shrill 
whistle,  a  gay  tra-la-la,  for  the  crack  of  little  whips,  for  the 
noise  of  drums,  fifes,  and  tin  trumpets ;  yet  these  things  made 
me  nervous  once. 

They  say,  "Ah!  you  have  leisure, — nothing  to  disturb 
you ;  what  heaps  of  sewing  you  have  time  for  !  "  But  I  long 
to  be  asked  for  a  bit  of  string  or  an  old  newspaper,  for  a  cent 
to  buy  a  slate-pencil  or  peanuts.  I  want  to  be  coaxed  for  a 
piece  of  new  cloth  for  jibs  or  main-sails,  and  then  to  hem  the 
same.  I  want  to  make  little  flags,  and  bags  to  hold  marbles. 
I  want  to  be  followed  by  little  feet  all  over  the  house,  teasing 
for  a  bit  of  dough,  for  a  little  cake,  or  to  bake  a  pie  in  a  sau- 
cer.    Yet  these  things  used  to  fidget  me  once. 

They  say,  "  Ah  !  you  are  not  tied  at  home  !     How  delight- 


120  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

fill  to  be  always  at  liberty  to  go  to  concerts,  lectxu'es,  and 
parties  !     No  confinement  for  you." 

But  I  want  confiuement.  I  want  to  listen  for  the  school- 
bell  mornings,  to  give  the  last  hasty  wash  and  brush,  and 
then  to  watch  from  the  window  nimble  feet  bounding  to 
school.  I  want  frequent  rents  to  mend,  and  to  replace 
lost  buttons.  I  want  to  obliterate  mud-stains,  fruit-stains, 
molasses-stains,  and  paints  of  all  colors.  I  want  to  be  sitting 
by  a  little  crib  of  evenings,  when  weary  feet  are  at  rest,  and 
prattling  voices  are  hushed  that  mothers  may  sing  their  lulla- 
bys,  and  tell  over  the  oft-repeated  stories.  They  don't  know 
their  happiness  then,  —  those  mothers.  I  did  n't.  All  these 
things  I  called  eonfinement  once. 

A  manly  figure  stands  before  me  now.  He  is  taller  than 
I,  has  thick  black  whiskers,  and  wears  a  frock-coat,  bosomed 
shirt,  and  cravat.  He  has  just  come  from  college.  He  brings 
Latin  and  Greek  in  his  countenance,  and  busts  of  the  old 
philosophers  for  the  sitting-room.  He  calls  me  mother,  but 
I  am  rather  unwilling  to  own  him. 

He  stoutly  declares  that  he  is  my  boy,  and  says  that  he 
will  prove  it.  He  brings  me  a  small  pan-  of  white  trousers, 
with  gay  stripes  at  the  sides,  and  asks  if  I  did  n't  make 
them  for  him  when  he  joined  the  boys'  militia.  He  says  he 
is  the  very  boy,  too,  that  made  the  bonfire  near  the  barn,  so 
that  we  came  very  near  having  a  fire  in  earnest.  I  see  it  all. 
My  little  boy  is  lost.  0,  I  wish  he  were  a  little  tired  boy, 
in  a  long  white  nightgown,  lying  in  his  crib,  with  me  sitting 
by,  holding  his  hand  in  mine,  pushing  the  cm-Is  back  from  his 
forehead,  watching  his  eyelids  droop,  and  listening  to  his  deep 
breathing ! 

If  I  only  had  my  little  boy  again,  how  patient  I  would  be  ! 
How  much  I  would  bear,  and  how  little  I  would  fret  and 
scold  !  I  can  never  have  him  back  again ;  but  there  are  still 
many  mothers  who  have  n't  jet  lost  their  little  boys.  I  won- 
der if  they  know  they  are  living  their  very  best  days ;  that 
now  is  the  time  to  really  enjoy  theu*  children. 


BOEEIOBOOLA   GHA.  121 


BOERIOBOOLA  GHA.  —  0.  Goodrich. 

A      STRANGER  preached  last  Sunday, 
-ZTA-     And  crowds  of  people  came 
To  hear  a  two  hours'  sermon 

On  a  theme  I  scarce  can  name ; 
'T  was  all  about  some  heathen, 

Thousands  of  miles  afar, 
Who  live  in  a  land  of  darkness, 

Called  Borrioboola  Gha. 

So  well  their  wants  he  pictured, 

That  when  the  box  was  passed, 
Each  listener  felt  his  pocket. 

And  goodly  suras  were  cast; 
For  all  must  lend  a  shoulder 

To  push  the  rolling  car 
That  carries  light  and  comfort 

To  Borrioboola  Gha. 

That  night  their  wants  and  sorrows 

Lay  heavy  on  my  soul, 
And  deep  in  meditation, 

I  took  my  morning  stroll, 
"When  something  caught  my  mantle 

With  eager  grasp  and  wild  ; 
And,  looking  .down  in  wonder^ 

I  saw  a  little  child,  — 

A  pale  and  puny  creature, 

In  rags  and  dirt  forlorn  : 
"  What  do  you  want  1 "  I  asked  her, 

Impatient  to  be  gone  ; 
With  trembling;  voice  she  answered, 

"  We  live  just  down  the  street. 
And  mamma,  she  's  a-dying. 

And  we  've  nothing  left  to.  eat." 


122  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   READINGS. 

Down  in  a  dark,  damp  cellar, 

With  mould  o'er  all  the  walls, 
Through  whose  half-buried  windows 

God's  sunlight  never  falls  ; 
Where  cold  and  want  and  hunger 

Crouched  near  her  as  she  lay, 
I  found  that  poor  child's  mother, 

Gasping  her  life  away. 

A  chair,  a  broken  table, 

A  bed  of  mouldy  straw, 
A  hearth  all  dark  and  firelesH  ; 

But  these  I  scarcely  saw, 
For  the  mournful  sight  before  me, 

So  sad  and  sickening,  —  0, 
I  had  never,  never  pictured 

A  scene  so  full  of  woe  !  '  . 

The  famished  and  the  naked, 

The  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 
The  squalid  group  that  huddled 

Around  that  dying  bed  ; 
All  this  distress  and  sorrow 

Should  be  in  lands  afar  ; 
Was  I  suddenly  transported 

To  Borrioboola  Gha  1 ' 

Ah  no  !  the  poor  and  wretched 

Were  close  beside  my  door, 
And  I  had  passed  them  heedless 

A  thousand  times  before  :     . 
Alas,  for  the  cold  and  hungry 

That  met  me  every  day. 
While  all  my  tears  were  given 

To  the  suffering  far  away  ! 

There  's  work  enough  for  Christians, 
In'  distant  lands,  we  know, 


THE    CLD   APPLE-WOMAN.  123 

Our  Lord  commands  his  servants 

Through  all  the  world  to  go, 
Not  only  to  the  heathen  ; 

This  was  his  command  to  them : 
"  Go,  preach  the  Word,  beginning 

Here,  at  Jerusalem." 

0  Christian,  God  has  promised    • 

Whoe'er  to  such  has  given 
A  cup  of  pure,  cold  water 

Shall  find  reward  in  heaven. 
Would  you  secure  this  blessing? 

You  need  not  seek  it  far ; 
Go  find  in  yonder  hovel 

A  BoiTioboola  Gha, 


THE  OLD  APPLE-WOMAN. 

ONCE  she  was  fair  as  thou ; 
Had  ringlets  on  her  brow ; 
Do  not  despise  her  now,  — 
Not  now. 

She  sitteth  in  the  cold  ] 
She  seemeth  very  old  ; 
Be  not  to  her  too  bold,  — 
Too  bold. 

She  sitteth  in  the  heat ; 
In  the  hot  and  jostling  street ; 
She  never  seems  to  eat,  — 
To  eat. 

From  earliest  morning  light 
To  the  dim  shades  of  the  night, 
A  patient,  weary  sight,  — 
Weary  sight. 


124         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

No  one  e'er  comes  to  greet, 
As  she  sits  on  the  street ; 
Sits  ever  o'er  her  feet,  — 
Her  feet. 

Yet  all  do  pass  that  way,  — 
The  young,  old,  grave,  and  gay ; 
Yet  no  one  goes  to  say 
Good  day. 

She  looketh  on  her  stand  ; 
She  wipes  it  with  her  hand,  — 
Wipes  apples,  dust,  and  sand 
With  her  hand. 

Yon  stop  and  ask  the  way  : 
"  One  cent,"  you  hear  her  say ; 
Naught  else  she  saith  all  day,  — 
All  day. 

The  crowd  it  ebbs  and  flows. 
Each  season  comes  and  goes ; 
The  only  "  change"  she  knows, 
One  cent. 


No  one  e'er  calls  the  name 
Of  that  aged,  crooning  dame  ; 
None  knoweth  whence  she  came, 
She  came. 

Yet  she  hath  been  a  bride  ; 
Stood  by  a  mother's  side  ; 
Was  once  a  husband's  pride,  — 
His  pride. 

She  had  a  home  as  .thou  ; 
Gone  are  both  fruit  and  bough  j 


THE   VAGABONDS.  I2i 

Deal  gently  with  her  now,  — 
Gently  now. 

One  home  ye  both  shall  have ; 
One  hope  beyond  the  grave  ; 
One  faith  ye  both  shall  save,  — 
Shall  save. 


THE  VAGABONDS.  —  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

"TTTE  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

V  \        Roger  's  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jmnp  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  yoixr  eye  ! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we  've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out  doors  when  nights  were  cold. 

And  ate  and  drank'  —  and  starved  —  together. 

We  've  learaed  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fii'e  to  thaw  our  thumbs,  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  wp  there  's  been  frozen,) 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 
■  (This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,) 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir,  —  I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — ^, 
Are  n't  we,  Roger  1  —  See  him  wink !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He  's  thirsty,  too,  —  see  liim  nod  his  head  1 

What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that 's  said,  — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 


126  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   READINGS. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  T  reflect, 

I  've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here  's  to  you,  sir  !)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He  '11  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable  thankless  master  ! 
No,  sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  1 
That  is,  there  's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter  ! 

We  '11  have  some  music,  if  you  're  willing. 

And  Boger  (hem  !  what  a  plagTie  a  cough  is,  sir  !) 
•  Shall  march  a  little.  ■ —  Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !  '  'Bout  face  !     Salute  your  officer  ! 
'  Put  up  that  paw  !     Dress  !     Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see  !)     Now  hold  your 
Gap  while  the  gentleman  gives  a  trifle, 
To  aid  a-  poor  old  patriot  soldier  ! 

March  !     Halt  !     Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes, 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that 's  fi-ve  ;  he  's  mighty  knowing ! 

The  night 's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  sir  !     I  'm  ill,  — my  brain  is  going  !  — 

Some  brandy,  —  thank  you,  —  there  !  —  it  passes ! 

Why  not  reform  1     That 's  easily  said  ; 

But  I  've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 


THE  VAGABONDS.  127 

Sometimes  forgetting  the- taste  of  bread, 
And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 

That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  ai^e  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 

I  'd  sell  out  heavea  for  something  warm 
To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  1 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  fi-iends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  —  but  I  took  to  drink  ;  — 

The  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  sir ;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

^Yhen  the  wine  went  roimd,  you  would  n't  have  guessed 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straving 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 

She  's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  : 

'T  was  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  1     Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road  :  a  carriage  stopped  :     • 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went. 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  ! 

You  've  set  mo  talking,  sir  ;•  I  'm  sorry  ; ' 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  1 

•Is  it  amusing  ]  you  find  it  strange  'i 


128  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'T  was  well  she  died  before  —     Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  1 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart  1 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now ;  that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  1 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink  ;- 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me ! 


OUTWARD   EOUND.— William  Allingham. 

CLINK  —  clink  —  clink  !  goes  our  windlass. 
"  Ahoy  !  "  —  "  Haul  in  !  "  —  "  Let  go  !  " 
Yards  braced  and  sails  set,  — 

Flags  uncTirl  and  flow. 
•  Some  eyes  that  watch  from  shore  are  wet,     ' 

(How  bright  their  welcome  shone  !) 
While,  bending  softly  to  the  breeze. 
And  rushing  through  the  parted  seas. 
Our  gallant  ship  glides  on. 


DIGGING   FOR   fflDDEN   TREASURE.  129 

Though  one  has  left  a  sweetheart, 

And  one  has  left  a  wife, 
'T  will  never  do  to  mope  and  fret, 

Or  curse  a  sailor's  life. 
See,  far  away  they  signal  yet,  — 

They  dwindle,  — fade,  — they  're  gone  ! 
For,  dashing  outwards,  bold  and  brave, 
And  springing  light  from  wave  to  wave, 

Our  merry  ship  flies  on. 

Gay  spreads  the  sparkling  ocean ; 

But  many  a  gloomy  night 
And  stormy  morrow  must  be  met 

Ere  next  we  heave  in  sight. 
The  parting  look  we  '11  ne'er  forget, 

The  kiss,  the  benison, 
As  round  the  rolling  world  we  go. 
God  bless  you  all !  —  Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  — ■ 

Sail  on,  good  ship,  sail  on  ! 


DIGGIXG  FOR  HIDDEN  TREASURE.— Charles  Reade. 

"  n\  /TY  lad,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  a  story,  but  I  suppose 
J3JL  I  shall  make  a  bungle  of  it ;  sha'  n't  cut  the  fui-row 
clean,  I  'm  doubtful." 

"  Never  mind ;  try  !  " 

"  Well  then.  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  old  chap 
that  had  heard  or  read  about  treasures  being  found  in  odd 
places,  —  a  pot  full  of  guineas,  or  something,  —  and  it  took 
root  in  his  heart,  till  nothing  would  serve  him  but  he  must 
find  a  pot  of  guineas  too.  He  used  to  poke  about  all  the  old 
ruins,  gi-ubbing  away,  and  would  have  taken  up  the  floor 
of  the  chiu-ch,  but  the  church-wardens  would  not  have  it. 
One  morning  he  comes  down  and  says  to  his  wife,  *  It  is  all 
right,  old  woman  ;  I  've  found  the  treasure.' 

6*  I 


130  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  '  No  !  have  you  though  1 '  says  she. 

"  '  Yes  ! '  says  he  ;  '  leastways  it  is  as  good  as  found  ;  it  ia 
only  -waiting  till  I  've  had  my  breakfast,  and  then  I  '11  go  out 
and  fetch  it  in.' 

"  '  La,  John,  but  how  did  you  find  it  ? ' 

"  '  It  was  revealed  to  me  in  a  dream,'  says  he,  as  grave  as  a 
judge. 

"  '  And  where  is  it  ] '  asks  the  old  woman. 

"  '  Under  a  tree  in  our  own  orchard,  — no  farther,'  says  he. 

"  '  0  John  !  how  long  you  are  at  breakfast  to-day  ! ' 

''  Up  they  both  got,  and  into  the  orchard. 

'•' '  Now,  which  tree  is  it  under  1 ' 

"  John,  he  scratches  his  head.      '  Blest  if  I  know.' 

"  '  Why,  you  old  ninny,'  says  the  mistress,  '  did  n't  you 
take  the  trouble  to  notice  1 ' 

"  '  That  I  did,'  said  he  ;  '  I  saw  plain  enough  which  tree  it 
was  in  my  dream,  but  now  they  muddle  it  all,  there  are  so 
many  of  'em.' 

"  '  Drat  your  stupid  old  head  ! '  says  she  ;  '  why  did  n't 
you  put  a  nick  on  the  right  one  at  the  time  1 ' 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  I  must  dig  till  I  find  the  right  one.' 

"  The  wife  she  loses  heart  at  this  ;  for  there  were  eighty 
apple-trees  and  a  score  of  cherry-trees.  '  Mind  you  don't  cut 
the  roots,'  says  she,  and  she  heaves  a  sigh. 

"  John,  he   gives  them  bad   language,    root   and   branch. 

*  What  signifies  cut  or  not  cut !  the  old  fagots,  they  don't 
bear  me  a  bushel  of  fruit,  the  whole  lot.  They  used  to 
bear  two  sacks  apiece  in  Other's  time.     Drat  'em  ! ' 

"  '  Well,  John,'  says  the  old  woman,  smoothing  him  down, 

*  father  used  to  give  them  a  deal  of  attention.' 

"  "T  ain't  that'!    't  ain't  that  !'  says  he,  quick  and  spite- 
ful-like ;    '  they  have  got  old  like  ourselves,  and  good  for  fire 
wood.' 

"Out  pickaxe  and  spade,  and  digs  three  feet  deep  round 
one,  and,  finding  nothing  but  mould,  goes  at  another,  makes 
a  little  mound  all  round  him  too,  —  no  guinea-pot. 

"  Well,  the  village  let  him  dig  three  or  four  quiet  enough ; 


DIGGING   FOR   HIDDEN   TREASURE.  131 

but  after  tliat  curiosity  was  awakened,  and  while  John  was 
digging,  and  that  was  all  day,  there  was  mostly  seven,  or 
eight  watching  through  the  fence  and  passing  their  jests. 
After  a  bit,  a  fashion  came  up  of  flinging  a  stone  or  two  at 
John ;  then  John,  he  brought  out  his  gun  loaded  with  dust- 
shot  along  with  his  pick  and  spade,  and  the  first  stone 
came  he  fired  sharp  in  that  direction,  and  then  loaded  again. 
So  they  took  that  hint,  and  John  dug  on  in  peace  till  about 
the  fourth  Sunday,  and  then  the  parson  had  a  slap  at  him 
in  church.  '  Folks  were  not  to  heap  up  to  themselves 
treasures  on  earth,'  was  all  his  discourse. 

"  But  it  seemed  he  was  only  heaping  up  mould ;  for  when 
he  had  dug  the  five-score  holes,  no  pot  of  gold  came  to  light. 
Then  the  neighbors  called  the  orchard  Jacobs's  Folly;  his 
name  was  Jacobs,  —  John  Jacobs. 

. "  *  Now  then,  wife,'  says  he,  '  suppose  you  and  I  look 
out  for  another  village  to  live  in,  for  their  gibes  are  more 
than  I  can  bear.' 

"  Old  woman  begins  to  crj^  '  Been  here  so  long,  —  brought 
me  home  here,  John,  when  we  were  first  married,  John,  and 
I  wa?  a  comely  lass,  and  you  the  smartest  young  man  I  ever 
saw,  to  my  fancy  anyway ;  could  n't  sleep  or  cat  my  victuals 
in  any  house  but  this.'    . 

"  *  Oh  !  could  n't  ye  1  Well,  then,  we  must  stay  ;  perhaps 
it  will  blow  over.' 

'"Like  everything  else,  John;  biit,  dear  John,  do  ye  fill 
in  those  holes  ;  the  young  folk  come  far  and  wide  on  Sundays 
to  see  them.' 

"  'Wife,  I  have  n't  the  heart,'  says  he.     'You  see,  when 
I  was  digging  for  the  treasure  I  was  alwaj'S  a  going  to  find, 
it  kept  my  heart  up  ;  but  take  out  a  shovel  and  fill  them  in, 
•  —  1  'd  as  lief  dine  off  white  of  egg  on  a  Sunday.' 

"  So  for  six  blessed  months  the  heaps  were  out  in  the  heat 
and  frost  till  the  end  of  February,  and  then  when  the  weather 
broke,  the  old  man  takes  heart  and  fills  them  in,  and  the 
village  soon  forgot  *  Jacobs's  Folly '  because  it  was  out  of 
sight. 


132  PUBLIC   AND   PAKLOR   READINGS. 

"  Coroes  April,  and  out  burst  the  trees.  ■  '  Wife,'  says  he, 
'  our  bloom  is  richer  than  I  've  known  it  this  many  a  year ; 
it  is  richer  than  our  neighbors'.'  Bloom  dies,  and  then 
out  come  about  a  million  little  green  things  quite  hard. 

"  Michaelmas  Day  the  old  trees  were  staggering,  and 
the  branches  down  to  the  gi'ound  with  the  crop ;  thirty 
shillings  on  every  tree  one  with  another;  and  so  on  for  the 
next  year,  and  the  next ;  sometimes  more,  sometimes  less, 
according  to  the  year.  Trees  were  old  and  wanted  a  change. 
His  letting  in  the  air  to  them  and  turning  the  subsoil  up 
to  the  frost  and  sun  had  renewed  their  youth.  So  by  that 
he  learned  that  tillage  is  the  way  to  get  treasure  from 
the  earth.  Men  are  ungi'ateful  at  times,  but  the  soil  is 
never  ungrateful ;  it  always  makes  a  return  for  the  pains 
we"  give    it'." 


THE   OLD   SERGEANT.  —  FoRGEYTHE  Willson. 
January  1,  1863. 

THE  carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads 
With  which  he  used  to  go. 
Rhyming  the  glad  rounds  of  the  happy  New  Years 
That  are  now  beneath  the  snow. 

For  the  same  awful  and  portentous  shadow 

That  overcast  the  earth, 
And  smote  the  land  last  yeai;  with  desolation, 

Still  darkens  every  hearth. 

And  the  carrier  hears  Beethoven's  mighty  death-march 

Come  up  from  every  mart  ; 
And  he  hears  and  feels  it  breathing  in  his  bosom, 

And  beating  in  his  heart. 

And  to-day,  a  scarred  and  weather-beaten  veteran, 
Again  he  comes  along, 


THE   OLD   SERGEANT.  133 

To  tell  the  story  of  the  Old  Year's  struggles 
lu  another  New  Year's  song. 

And  the  song  is  his,  but  not  so  with  the  story, 

For  the  story,  you  must  know, 
Was  told  in  prose  to  Assistant  Surgeon  Austin, 

By  a  soldier  of  Shiloh. 

By  Robert  Burton,  who  was  brought  tip  on  the  Adams, 

With  his  death- wound  in  his  side ; 
And  who  told  the  story  to  the  assistant  surgeon 

On  the  same  night  that  he  died. 

But  the  singer  feels  it  will  better  suit  the  ballad. 

If  all  should  deem  it  right. 
To  tell  the  story  as  if  what  it  speaks  of 

Had  happened  but  last  night. 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  doctor,  —  thank  you,  —  let  me  take 

the  cup ; 
Draw  yoiu-  chair  up,  —  draw  it  closer,  — just  another  little 

sup ! 
^Faybe    you    may  think    I  'm    better  ;  but  I  'm   pretty  well 

used  up,  —  .  ■ 

Doctor,  you  've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I  'm  just  a  going  up ! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much  use  to- 

try-" 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smothered  down  a 

sigh  ; 
**  Tt  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say  die  ! " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  doctor,  when  you 

come  to  die." 

"  Doctor,    what   has  been   the   matter  V ■    "  You  "were  very 

faint,  they  say ; 
You  must  try  to  get  some  sleep   now."     "Doctor,   have    I 

been  away  1 "       "         • 


134  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

"Not  that  anybody  knows  of!"     "Doctor,  —  doctor,  please 

to  stay  ! 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have  long 

to  stay  ! 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I  'm  ready  now  to  go  ; 
Doctor,   did  you  say  I  fainted  1  —  but  it  could  n't  ha'  been 

so,  —  . 

For  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  sergeant,  and.  was  wounded  at  Shiloh, 
'I  've  this  very  night  been    back  there,   on  the  old  field  of 

Shiloh  !. 

"  This  is    all  that  I  remember !     The  last  time  the  lighter 

came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises  much  the 

same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something  called 

my  name  : 

*  Orderly   Sergeant  —  Egbert   Burton  ! '  just  that  way  it 

called  my  name. 

"And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so   distinctly  and   so 

slow. 
Knew  it  could  n't  be  the  lighter,  —  he  could  not  have  spoken 

so,  — 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir  ! '  but  I  could  n't  make  it  go  ! 
For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  could  n't  make  it  go  ! 

"  Then  I  thought  :  '  It  's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug  and 

a  bore  ; 
Just  another   foolish   grape-vine,  —  and    it    won't   come    any 

more ' ; 
But   it  came,    sir,    notwithstanding,  just   the   same  way  as 

before  : 

*  Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton  ! '  even  plainer  than 

before^ 


THE   OLD   SERGEANT.  135 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of  light, 
And.  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that  Sunday 

night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  opposite  ! 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its  power,' 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial  tower ; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said  :  '  It  is  the  eleventh 

HOUR  ! 

Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton,  —  it  is  the  eleventh 
HOUR  ! '  • 

"Doctor  Austin!  what  day  is   this?"     "It   is  Wednesday 

night,  you  know." 
"  Yes,  —  to-morrow  wiU  be  New  Year's,  and  a   right   good 

time  below  ! 
What  time  is  it,  Doctor  Austin  1  "    "  Nearly  twelve."    "  Then 

don't  you  go  !  ' 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this  —  not  an  hour 

ago? 

"  There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on  the  dark  rebel- 

Jious  host ; 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns  upon  the  coast ; 
.There  were  stiU  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  sarne,  or  else 

their  ghost,  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over,  — or  its 

ghost ! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted  far  and  wide ; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  —  there   McClernand 

met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stem  Sherman  rallied,  and  where  Hurlbut's 

heroes  died,  — 
Lower  down  where  Wallace  charged  them,  and  kept  charging 

till  he  died. 


136  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOE   EEADINGS. 

''  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was  of  the 

cannv  kin, 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where  Rousseau 

waded  in  ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  began  to  win,  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we  began  to 

win^ 

"  Now  a  shroud  of  snow  and   silence   over   everything  was 

spread  ; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my  head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  was  dead,  — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the  dead ! 

"  Death  and  silence  !  —  death  and  silence  !  all  around  me  as 

I  sped  ! 
And  behold  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead. 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens,  lifted  up  its  mighty  head. 
Till  the  stars  and  stripes  of  heaven  all  seemed  waving  from 

its  head  ! 

"  Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered, —  up  •  into  the  infi- 
nite, — 

And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could   have  built  a  shaft  so 

bright ; 
•  For   it    shone    like    solid  sunshine ;  and  a  winding  stair  of 
light 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it  tiU  it  wound  clear  out  of 
sight ! 

"And,  behold,  as  I  approached   it,  with  a  rapt  and  dazzled 

stare,  — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the  great 

stair,  — 
.  Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of —  '  Halt,  and  who 

goes  there  1 ' 
'I  'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  'if  you  are.'     'Then  advance,  sir,  to 

the  stair  ! '  ' 


THE    OLD    SERGEANT.  137 

"  i    advanced  !  —  That    sentry,    doctor,    was    Elijah    Ballan- 

tyne  !  — 
First   of  aD  to  fall   on  "Monday,  after  we   had   formed   the 

line  :  — 

*  Welcome,  my   old   sergeant,  welcome  !     Welcome   by  that 

countersign  ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak  of 
mine  ! 

*'  As  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking  only  of  the 

grave ; 
But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a  bright  and  blood- 
less glaive  ; 
'  That 's  the  way,  sir,  to  head-quarters.'     '  What  head-quar- 
•     ters  r     'Of  the  brave.'  • 

*  But  the.  great  tower  1 '     '  That, '  he  answered,  *  is  the  way, 

sir,  of  the  brave  ! ' 

"  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform  of  light ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and  bright. 

*  Ah !    said   he,    *  you   have  forgotten   the   new  unifonn  to- 

night, — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock  to- 
night! ' 

"And   the  next  thing  I   remember,    you  were  sitting  there^ 

and  I  — 
Doctor,  —  did  you  hear  a  footstep  1     Hark  !  —  God  bless  you 

all !     Good  by  ! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack,  when  I 

die, 
To  my  son  —  my  son  that  's  coming,  —  ho  won't  get  here  till 

I  die  ! 

"  Tell   him   his   old    father    blessed   him   as   he   never   did 

before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket  —  "     Hark  !  a  knock  is  at  the 

door  — 


138  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

"  Till  the  Union  —  "     See  !   it  opens  !  —     "Father  !  Father  ! 

speak  once  more  !  "  —  ' 

"Bless  you  !  "gasped  the  old  gray  sergeant,  and  he  lay  and 

said  no  more  ! 


LITTLE   GOLDENHAIR. 

GOLDENHAIE,  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee  ; 
Dear  little  Goldenhair,  tired  was  she, 
All  the  day  busy  as  busy  could  be. 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  't  was  light, 
Out  with  the  birds  and  butterflies  bright, 
Skipping  about  till  the  coming  of  night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  with  the  curls  on  her  head, 
"  What  has  my  dai'ling  been  doing,"  he  said, 
"Since  she  rose  with  the  sun  from  her  bed  1 " 

"  Pitty  much,"  answered  the  sweet  little  one. 
."  I  cannot  tell  so  much  things 'I  have  done, 
Played  with  my  dolly  and  feeded  my  bun. 

"  And  then  I  jumped  with  my  little  jump-rope, 
And  I  made  out  of  some  water  and  soap 
Bootiful  worlds,  mamma's  castles  of  hope. 

"  Then  I  have  readed  in  my  picture-book, 

And  Bella  and  I,  we  went  to  look 

For  the  smooth  little  stones  by  the  side  of  the  brook. 

"  And  then  I  comed  home  and  eated  my  tea. 
And  I  climbed  up  on  grandpapas  knee. 
And  I  jes  as  tired  as  tu-ed  can  be." 


HOW  'S   MY   BOY  ?  139 

Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  pressed, 
Until  it  had  dropped  upon  grandpapa's  breast ; 
Dear  little  Goldeuhair,  sweet  be  thj-  rest ! 

"We  are  but  children  ;  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  view, 
That  marks  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it  too. 

.God  grant,  that  when  night  overshadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day. 
He  shall  find  us  as  guileless  as  Goldenhair's  lay. 

And  0,  when  aweary,  may  we  be  so  blest. 
And  sink  like  the  innocent  child  to  our  rest, 
And  feel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  Infinite  breast  1 


HOW'S  MY  BOY?  — S.  Dobell.. 

HO,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 
_  .How  's  my  boy  — -  my  boy  1 
"  YV  hat  's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 
And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  1 " 

My  boy  John,  — 

He  that  went  to  sea,  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  1 

My  boy  's  my  boy  to  me. 

You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John  1 

I  jKiight  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There  's  not  a -dolt  in  all  the  parish 

But  he  knows  my  John. 


140         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  REACINGS. 

How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know, 
I  'II  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 
Blue  jacket  or  no, 
Brass  button  or  no,  sailor. 
Anchor  and  crown'  or  no  ! 
Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton  — 
"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 

And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  1 
If  I  was  loud  as  1  am  proud 
I'd  sing  him  over  the  town ! 
Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  1 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I.  never  was  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat,  or  be  she  aground. 

Sinking  or  swimTning,  I  '11  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  afford  her  ! 

I  say  how  's  my  John  ] 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  1 
I  'm  not  their  mother,  — 
How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ] 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 
How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ] 


JOHN  VALJOHN  AND  THE  SAVOYAKD.      141 


J0H2T  VALJOHN  AND   THE  SAVOYARD. 
Victor  Hugo. 

AS  the  sun  was  sinking  towards  the  horizon,  John  Val- 
john,  a  convict  lately  released  from  the  galleys,  was 
seated  behind  a  thicket  in  a  large  barren  plain.  There  was 
no  horizon  but  the  Alps'.  Not  even  the  steeple  of  a  village 
church.  It  might  have  been  three  leagues  from  the  city.  A 
by-path,  which  crossed  the  plain,  passed  a  few  steps  from  the 
thicket. 

In  the  midst  of  his  meditation,  which  would  have  height- 
ened not  a  little  the  frightful  effect  of  his  rags  to  any  one 
who  might  have  met  him,  he  heard  a  joyous  sound.  He 
turned  his  head,  and  saw  coming  along  the  path  a  little 
Savoyard,  a' dozen  years  old,  singing,  with  his  hurdy-gurdy  at 
his  side,  and  his  marmot  on  his  back  ;  — one  of  those  pleasant 
and  gay  youngsters  who  go  from  place  to  place,  with  their 
knees  sticking  through  their  trousers. 

Always  singing,  the  boy  stopped  from  time  to  time,  and 
played  at  tossing  up  some  pieces  of  -money  that  he  had 
in  his  hand,  probably- his  whole  fortune.  Among  them  there 
was  one  forty-sous  piece. 

The  boy  stopped  by  the  side  of  the  thicket  without  seeing 
John  Valjohn,  and  tossed  up  his  handful  of  sous.  Until  this 
time  he  had  skilfully  caught  the  whole  of  them  upon  the  back 
of  his  hand.  This  time  the  forty-sous  piece  escaped  him,  and 
rolled  towards  the  thicket  near  John  Valjohn. 

John  Valjohn  put  his  foot  upon  it. 

The  boy,  however,  had  followed  thd  piece  with  his  eye, 
and  had  seen  where  it  went.  He  was  not  frightened,  and 
walked  straight  to  the  man. 

It  was  an  entirely  solitary  place.     Far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  there  was  no  one  on  the  plain  or  in  the  path.     Noth-. 
ing  could  be  heard  but  the  faint   cries  of  a  flock  of.  birds 
of  passage,  that  were  flying  across  the   sky  at  an  immense 
height.     The  child  turned  his  back  to  the  sun,  which  made 


142     •    PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

his  ha.ir  like  threads  of  gold,  and  flushed  the  savage  face  of 
John  Valjohn  with  a  lurid  glow. 

"  Mister,"  said  the  little  Savoyard,  with  that  childish  con- 
fidence which  is  made  up  of  ignorance  and  innocence,  "my 
piece  1 " 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "   said.  John  Valjohn. 

"  Little  Geryais,  mister." 

"  Get  out !  "  said  John  Valjohn. 

"  Mister,"  continued  the  boy,  "  give  me  my  piece." 

John  Valjohn  dropped  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

The  child  began  again  :  "  My  piece,  mister  !  " 

John  Valjohu's  eye  remained  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  My  piece  !  "  exclaimed  ;  the  boy,  "  my  white  piece  !  my 
silver  ! "  • 

John   Valjohn   did   not  appear  to  understand.     The  boy 
took  him  by  the  collar  of  his  blouse  and  shook  him.     And  at 
the  same  tim6  he  made  an  effort  to  move  the  big,  iron-soled 
shoe  which  was  placed  upon  his  treasure. 
■  "  I  want  my  piece  !  my  fprty-sous  piece  !  " 

The  child  began  to  cry.  John  Valjohn  raised  his  head. 
He  still  kept  his  seat.  His  look  was  troubled.  He  looked 
upon  the  boy  with  an  air  of  wonder,  then  reached  out  his 
hand  towards  his  stick,  and-  exclaimed  in  a  terrible  voice, 
"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  Me,  mister,"  answered  the  boy.  "  Little  Gervais  !  me  ! 
me  !  give  me  my  forty-sous,  if  you  please  !  Take  away  your 
foot,  mister,  if  you  please  ! "  Then  becoming  angry,  small  as 
he  was,  and  almost  threatening,  — 

"  Come,  now,  will  jow  take  away  your  foot  1  Why  don't 
you  take  away  your  foot  1 " 

"  Ah  !  you  here  yet  ! "  said  John  Vuljohn ;  and,  rising 
hastily  to  his  feet,  without  releasing  the  piece  of  money,  he 
added,  '*  You  'd  better  take  care  of  yourself  ! " 

The'  boy  looked  at  him  in  terror,  then  began  to  tremble 
from  head  to  foot,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of  stupor,  took  to 
flight  and  ran  with  all  his  might,  without  daring  to  turii  his 
head,  or  to  utter  a  cry. 


JOHN   VALJOHN   AND   THE   SAVOYARD.  143 

At  A  little  distance,  however,  he  stopped  for  want  of  breath, 
and  John  Valjohn,  in  his  revery,  heai'd  him  sobbing. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  boy  was  gone. 

The  sun  bad  gone  do\\Ti. 

The  shadows  were  deepening  around  John  Yaljohn.  He 
had  not  eaten  during  the  day  ;  probably  he  had  some  fever. 

He  had  remained  standing,  and  had  not  changed  his  attk 
tude  since  the  child  fled.  His  breathing  was  at  long  and 
unequal  intervals.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  spot  ten  or 
twelve  steps  before  him,  and  seemed  to  be  studying  with 
profound  attention  the  form  of  an  old  piece  of  bkie  crockery 
that  was  lying  in  the  grass.  All  at  once  he  shivered  ;  he 
began  to  feel  the  cold  night  air. 

He  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  forehead,  sought  mechani- 
cally to  fold  and  button  his  blouse  around  him,  stepped  for- 
ward and  stooped  to  pick  up  his  stick. 

At  that  instant  he  perceived  the  forty-sous  piece  which 
his  foot  had  half  bui-ied  in  the  ground,  and  which  glistened 
among  the  pebbles.  It  was  like  an  electric  shock.  "What 
is  that  1 "  said  he,  between  his  teeth.  He  drew  back  a  step 
or  two,  then  stopped,  without  the  power  to  withdraw  his  gaze 
from  this  point  which  his  foot  had  covered  the  instant  before, 
as  if  the  thing  that  glistened  there  in  the  obscurity  had  been 
an  02)en  eye  fixed  upon  him. 

After  a  few  ;iiinutes  he  sprang  convulsively  towards  the 
piece  of  money,  seized  it,  and,  rising,  looked  away  over  the 
plain,  straining  his  eyes  towards  all  points  of  the  horizon, 
standing  and  trembling  like  a  frightened  deer  which  is 
seeking- a  place  of  refuge. 

He  saw  nothing.  Night  was  falling,  the  plain  was  cold  and 
bare,  thick  purple  mists  were  rising  in  the  glimmering  twilight. 

He  said,  "  Oh  ! " ,  and  began  to  walk  rapidly  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  child  had  gone.  After  some  thirty  steps 
he  stopped,  looked  about,  and  saw  nothing. 

Then  he  called  with  all  his  might,  "Little  Gervais!  Little 
Gervais  !  "     He  listened.     There  was  no  answer. 

The  country  was  desolate  and  gloomy.     On  all  sides  was 


144  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READING^. 

space.     There  was  nothing  about  him  but  a  shadow  in  which 
his  gaze  was  lost,  and  a  silence  in  which  his  voice' was  lost. 

A  biting  norther  was  blowing,  which  gave  a  kind  of  dismal 
life  to  everything  about  him.     The  bushes  shook  their  little 
,thin  arms  with  an  incredible  fury.     One  would  have  said  that 
they  were  threatening  and  pursuing  somebody. 

He  began  to  walk  again,  then  quickened  his  pace  to  a  run, 
and  from  time  to  time  stopped  and  called  out  in  that  soli- 
tude, in  a  most  desolate  and  terrible  voice  :  "  Little  Gervais  ! " 
Little  Gervais  !  " 

Surely,  if  the  child  had  heard  him,  he  would  have  been 
friglitened,  and  would  have  hid  himself.  But  doubtless  the 
boy  was  already  far  away. 

He  met  a  priest  on  horseback.  He  went  up  to  him  and 
said  :  "  Mr.  Curate,  have  you  seen  a  child  go  by  I " 

"  No,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Little  Gervais  was  his  name  1 " 

"  I  have  seen  nobody." 

.  He  took  two  five-franc  pieces  from  his  bag  and  gave  them 
to  the  priest. 

"Mr.  Curate,  this  is  for  your  poor.  Mr.  Curate,  he  is  a 
little  fellow,  about  ten  years  old,  with  a  marmot,  I  think,  and 
a  hurdy-gurdy.  He  went  this  way.  One  of  these  Savoyards, 
you  know  ] " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"Little  Gervais]  Is  his  village  near  here?  Can  you  tell 
me  r' 

"  If  it  be  as  you  say,  my  friend,  the  little  fellow  is  a 
foreigner.  They  roam  about  this  country.  Nobody  knows 
them." 

John  Valjohn  hastily  took  out  two  more  five-franc  pieces, 
and  gave  them  to  the  priest.     "  For  your  poor,''  said  he. 

Then  he  added  wildly  :  "  Mr.  Abbe,  have  me  an-ested ;  I 
am  a  robber." 

The  priest  put  spurs  t**  his  horse,  and  fled  in  great  fear. 
"John  Valjohn  began  to  run  again  in  the  direction  which  he 
had  first  taken. 


.  SHAMUS   O'BRIEN.  145 

He  went  on  in  this  wise  for  a  considerable  distance,  lookins 
around,  calling  and  shouting,  but  met  nobody  else.  Two  or 
three  times  he  leit  the  path  to  look  at  what  seemed  to  be 
somebody  lying  down  or  crouching ;  it  was  only  low  bushes 
or  rocks. 

Finally,  at  a  place  where  three  paths  met,  he  stopped. 
The  moon  had  risen.  He  strained  his  eyes  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  called  out  once  more,  "  Little  Gervais !  Little 
Gervais !  Little  Gervais ! "  His  cries  died  away  into  the 
mist,  without  even  awakening  an  echo.  Again  he  mur- 
mured. "  Little  Gervais ! "  but  with  a  feeble  and  almost 
inai-ticulate  voice. 

That  was  his  last  effort ;  his  knees  suddenly  bent  under 
him,  as  if  an  invisible  power  overwhelmed  him  at  a  blow, 
with  the  weight  of  his  conscience.  He  fell  exhausted  upon  a 
great  stone,  his  hands  clenched  in  his  hair,  and  his  face  ou 
his  knees,  and  exclaimed,  "  What  a  wretch  I  am  !" 

Then  his  heart  swelled,  and  he  burst  into  tears.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  wept  for  nineteen  years. 

How  long  did  he  weep  thus  1  What  did  he  do  after  weep- 
ing? Where  did  he  go  ]  Nobody  ever  knew.  It  is  known  / 
simply  that,  on  that  very  night,  the  stage-driver  who  drove 
at  that  time  on  the  Grenoble  route,  and  arrived  at  the  city 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  saw,  as  he  passed  through 
a  certain  street,  a  man  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  kneeling 
upon  the  pavement  in  the  shadow,  before  the  door  of  the 
Bishop's  residence. 


SHAMUS  O'BRIEN.  —  J.  S.  Le  Fanu. 

J  1ST  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  '98, . 
As  soon  as  the  boys  wor  all  scattered  and  bate, 
'T  was  the  custom,  whenever  a  pisant  was  got, 
To  hang  him  by  thrial  —  ban'in'  sich  as  was  shot. 
There  was  trial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  daylight, 
And  the  martial-law  hangiu'  the  lavins  by  night. 
7  J 


146         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

It 's  them  was  hard  times  for  an  honest  gossoon  : 
K  he  missed  in  the  judges  —  he  'd  meet  a  dragoon ; 
An'  whether  the  sodgers  or  judges  ger  sentence, 
The  divil  a  much  time  they  allowed  for  repentance. 
An'  it  's  many  's  the  fine  boy  was  then  on  his  keepin' 
Wid  small  share  iv  restiu',  or  atin',  or  sleepin', 
An'  because  they  loved  Erin,  an'  scorned  to  sell  it, 
A  prey  for  the  bloodhound,  a  mark  for  the  bullet,  — 
Unsheltered  by  night,  and  unrested  by  day, 
With  the  heath  for  their  barrack,  revenge  for  their  pay  j 
An'  the  bravest  an'  hardiest  boy  iv  them  all 
Was  Shamus  O'Brien,  from  the  town  iv  Glingall. 
His  limbs  were  well  set,  an'  his  body  was  light,  ' 
■  An'  the  keen-fanged  hound  had  not  teeth  half  so  white ; 
But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead. 
And  his  cheek  never  warmed  with  the  blush  of  the  red ; 
An'  for  all  that  he  was  n't  an  ngly  young  bye, 
For  the  divil  himself  could  n't  blaze  with  his  eye, 
So  droll  an'  so  wicked,  so  dark  and  so  bright, 
Like  a  fire-flash  that  crosses  the  depth  of  the  night ! 
An'  he  was  the  best  mower  that  ever  has  been, 
An'  the  illigantest  hurler  that  ever  was  seen. 
An'  his  dancin'  was  sich  that  the  men  used  to  stare, 
An'  the  women  turn  crazy,  he  done  it  so  quare ; 
An',  by  gorra,  the  whole  world  gev  it  into  him  there. 
An'  it 's  he  was  the  boy  that  was  hard  to  be  caught, 
.    An'  it  's  often  he  run,  an'  it  's  often  he  fought, 
An'  it  's  many  the  one  can  remember  right  well 
The  quare  things  he  done  :  an'  it  's  often  I  heerd  tell 
How  he  lathered  the  yeomen,  himself  agin'  four, 
An'  stretched  the  two  strongest  on  old  Galtimore. 
But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must  rest, 
An'  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  iv  the  best  ■ 
Afther  many  a  brave  action  of  power  and  pride. 
An'  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side. 
An'  a  thousand  great  dangers  and  toils  overpast, 
In  the  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 


SHAMUS    O'BRIEN.  147 

Now,  Shanius,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 

For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon. 

An'  take  your  last  look  at  her  dim  lovely  light. 

That  falls  on  the  mountain  and  valley  this  night ; 

One  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  flood, 

An'  one  at  the  sheltliering,  far-distant  wood  ; 

Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 

An'  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  thuik  of  you  still ; 

Farewell  to  the  pathern,  the  hurliu' an'  wake, 

And  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake. 

An'  twelve  sodgers  brought  him  to  Maryborough  jail, 

An'  the  turnkey  resaved  him,  refusin'  all  bail ; 

The  fleet  limbs  wor  chained,  an'  the  sthrong  hands  wor  bound, 

An'  he  laid  do-rtn  his  length  on  the  cowld  prison  ground, 

An'  the  dreams  of  his  childhood  kem  over  him  there 

As  gentle  an'  soft  as  the  sweet  summer  air ; 

An'  happy  remembrances  crowding  on  ever. 

As  fast  as  the  foam-flakes  dhrift  down  on  the  river. 

Bringing  fresh  to  his  heart  merry  days  long  gone  by. 

Till  the  tears  gathered  heavy  and  thick  in  his  eye. 

But  the  tears  did  n't  fall,  for  the  pride  of  his  heart 

Would  not  suff"er  one  drop  down  his  pale  cheek  to  start  ; 

An'  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  dark  prison  cave, 

An'  he  swore  with  the  fierceness  that  misery  gave, 

By  the  hopes  of  the  good,  an'  the  cause  of  the  brave, 

That  when  he  was  mouldering  in  the  cold  grave 

His  enemies  never  should  have  it  to  boast 

His  scorn  of  their  vengeance  one  moment  was  lost ; 

His  bosom  might  bleed,  but  his  cheek  should  be  dhry, 

For  undaunted  he  lived,  and  undaunted  he  'd  die. 

Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  was  over  and  gone, 

The  terrible  day  iv  the  thrial  kem  on  ; 

There  was  sich  a  crowd  there  was  scarce  room  to  stand, 

An'  sodgers  on  guard,  an'  dhragoons  sword  in  hand  ; 

An'  the  court-house  so  full  that  the  people  were  bothered, 

An'  attorneys  an'  criers  on  the  point  iv  bein'  smothered ; 


148         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

An'  coimsiBllors  almost  gev  over  for  dead, 

An'  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  their  box  overhead  ; 

An'  the  judge  settled  out  so  detiirmiued  an'  big, 

With  his  gown  on  his  back,  and  an  illegant  new  wig; 

An'  silence  was  called,  an'  the  minute  it  was  said 

The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead, 

An'  they  heard  but  the  opeuin'  of  one  prison  lock, 

An'  Shamus  O'Brien  kem  into  the  dock. 

For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  round  on  the  throng, 

An'  he  looked  at  the  bars,  so  firm  and  so  strong, 

An'  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 

A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend  ; 

An'  he  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  alone. 

As  calm  and  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone ; 

And  they  read  a  big  writin',  a  yard  long  at  laste. 

An'  Jim  did  n't  understand  it,  nor  mind  it  a  taste  ; 

An'  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  iv  snufF,  and  he  says, 

•'  Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  av  you  plase  ] " 

An'  all  held  their  breath  in  the  silence  of  dhread. 

An'  Shamus  O'Brien  made  answer  and  said  : 

*'  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me,  if  in  my  life-time 

I  thought  any  treason,  or  did  any  crime 

That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here, 

The  hot  blush  of  shame,  or  the  coldness  of  fear, 

Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death-blow. 

Before  God  and  the  world  I  would  answer  you,  no  ! 

But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like, 

If  in  the  rebellion  I  carried  a  pike. 

An'  fought  for  ould  Ireland  from  the  first  to  the  close, 

An'  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes, 

I  answer  you,  yes  ;  and  I  tell  you  again. 

Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  it  's  my  glory  that  then 

In  her  cause  I  was  willing  my  veins  should  run  dhry. 

An'  that  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die." 

Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright, 
An'  the  judge  was  n't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light ; 


SHAMUS   O'BRIEN.  149 

By  toy  sowl,  it  's  himself  was  the  crabbed  ould  chap  ! 

In  a  twinklin'  he  pulled  ou  his  ugly  black  cap. 

Then  Shamus'  mother  in  the  crowd  standin'  by, 

Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry  : 

"  0  judge  !  darliu',  don't,  0,  don't  say  the  word  ! 

The  crathur  is  young,  have  mercy,  my  lord  ; 

He  was  foolish,  he  did  n't  know  what  he  was  doin' ; 

You  don't  know  him,  my  lord,  —  0,  don't  give  him  to  ruin  ! 

He  's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tendherest-hearted ; 

Don't  part  us  forever,  we  that 's  so  long  parted. 

Judge,  mavourneen,  forgive  him,  forgive  him,  my  lord, 

An'  God  will  forgive  you  —  0,  don't  say  the  word  ! " 

That  was  the  first  minute  that  O'Brien  was  shaken, 

"When  he  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  forgot  or  forsaken ; 

An'  down  his  pale  cheeks,  at  the  word  of  his  mother, 

The  big  tears  wor  runnin'  fast,  one  afther  th'  other ; 

An'  two  or  three  times  he  endeavored  to  spake, 

But  the  sthrong,  manly  voice  used  to  falther  and  break ; 

But  at  last,  by  the  strength  of  his  high-mounting  pride, 

He  conquered  and  masthered  his  griefs  swelling  tide, 

"  An',  "  says  he,  "  mother,  darlin',  don't  break  your  poor  heart 

For,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part ; 

And  God  knows  it  's  betther  than  wandering  in  fear 

On  the  bleak,  trackless  mountain,  among  the  wild  deer, 

To  lie  in  the  gi-ave,  where  the  head,  heart,  and  breast, 

From  thought,  labor,  and  sorrow  forever  shall  rest. 

Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  ciy  any  more. 

Don't  make  me  seem  broken,  in  this,  my  last  hour ; 

For  I  wish,  when  my  head  's  lyin'  undher  the  raven. 

No  thiaie  man  can  say  that  I  died  like  a  craven  ! " 

Then  towards  the  judge  Shamus  bent  down  his  head, 

An'  that  minute  the  solemn  death-sentince  was  said. 

The  mornin'  was  bright,  an'  the  mists  rose  on  high, 
An'  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky; 
But  why  are  the  men  standin'  idle  so  late  ] 
An'  why  do  the  crowds  gather  fast  in  the  street  1 


150         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

What  come  they  to  talk  of  1  what  come  they  to  see  1 

An'  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  cross-tree  'i 

0  Shamus  O'Brien  !  pray  fervent  and  f\\st, 

May  the  saints  take  your  soul,  for  this  day  is  your  last ; 

Pray  fast  an'  pray  sthrong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 

When,  sthrong,  proud,  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  must  die. 

An'  fasther  an'  fosther  the  crowd  gathered  there, 

Boys,  horses,  and  gingerbread,  just  like  a  fair; 

An'  whiskey  was  sellin',  an'  cussamuck  too,, 

An'  ould  men  and  young  women  enjoying  the  view. 

An'  ould  Tim  Mulvany,  he  med  the  remark, 

There  was  n't  sich  a  sight  since  the  time  of  Noah's  ark, 

An'  be  gorry,  't  was  thrue  for  him,  for  divil  sich  a  scruge, 

Sich  divarshin  and  crowds,  was  known  since  the  deluge, 

For  thousands  were  gathered  there,  if  there  was  one, 

Waitin'  till  such  time  as  the  hangin'  id  come  on. 

At  last  they  threw  open  the  big  prison  gate. 

An'  out  came  the  sheriffs  and  sodgers  in  state, 

An'  a  cart  in  the  middle,  an'  Shamus  was  in  it, 

Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  evei',  that  minute. 

An'  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shamus  O'Brien, 

Wid  pray  in'  and  blessin',  and  all  the  girls  cry  in', 

A  wild  wailin'  sound  kem  on  by  degrees. 

Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  blowin'  through  trees. 

On,  on  to  the  gallows  the  sheriffs  are  gone,    • 

An'  the  cart  an'  the  sodgers  go  steadily  on  ; 

An'  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 

A  wild,  sorrowful  sound,  that  id  open  your  heart. 

Now  under  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand. 

An'  the  hangman  gets  up  with  the  rope  in  his  hand,; 

An'  the  priest,  havin'  blest  him,  goes  down  on  the  ground, 

An'  Shamus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  look  round. 

Then  the  hangman  dhrew  near,  an'  the  people  grew  still, 

Young  faces  turned  sickly,  and  warm  hearts  turned  chill ; 

An'  the  rope  bein'  ready,  his  neck  was  made  bare. 

For  the  gripe  iv  the  life-strangling  cord  to  prepare ; 


COME  UP   FROM  THE   FIELDS,    FATHER  !  151 

An'  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  haviu'  said  his  last  praj'er. 

But  the  good  priest  done  more,  for  his  hauds  he  uubound, 

And  with  one  dariug  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the  ground ; 

Bang  !  bang  !  goes  the  carbines,  and  clash  goes  the  sabres  ; 

He  's  not  dou'n  !  he  's  alive  still  !  now  stand  to  him,  neighbors  ! 

Through  the  smoke  and  the  horses  he  's  into  the  crowd,  — 

By  the  heavens,  he  's  free  !  —  than  thunder  more  loud, 

By  one  shout  from  the  people  the  heavens  were  shaken,  — 

One  shout  that  the  dead  of  the  world  might  awaken. 

The  sodgers  ran  this  way,  the  sheriffs  ran  that, 

An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat ; 

To-night  he  '11  be  sleepin'  in  Aherloe  Glin, 

An'  the  divil  's  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  ag'in. 

Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  .go  bang, 

But  if  you  want  hangin',  it  's  yourself  you  must  hang. 

He  has  mounted  his  horse,  and  soon  he  will  be 
In  America,  darlint,  the  land  of  the  free. 


COME   UP  FROM   THE   FIELDS,   FATHER! 
Walt  Whitman. 

COME   up  from  the  fields,  father ;  here  's  a  letter  from 
our  Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother  ;  here  's  a  letter  from  thy 

dear  son. 
Lo,  't  is  autumn  ; 

Lo,  where  the  fields,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 
Coofand  sweeten  Ohio's  villages,  with  leaves  fluttering  in  the 

moderate  wind  ; 
Where   apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang,  and  grapes  on  the 

trellised  vines. 
(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  tlie  vines  1 
Smell    you    the    buckwheat,    where    the    bees   were    lately 

buzzing  1) 


152         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Above  all,  lo  !  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain, 

and  with  wondrous  clouds  ; 
Below,  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful,  —  and  the  farm 

prospers  well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well ; 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,  father,  —  come  at  the  daughter's- 

call ; 
And  come  to  the  entry,  mother,  — to  the  front  door  come, 

right  away. 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries,  —  something  ominous,  —  her  steps 

trembling ; 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  white  hair,  nor  adjust  her 

cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly ; 

0,  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  signed  ! 

0,  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear   son —     0   stricken 

mother's  soul  ! 
AH  swims  before  her  eyes,  —  flashes  with  black,  —  she  catches 

the  main  words  only  ; 
Sentences  broken,  —  gunshot  wound  in  the   breast  —  cavalry 

skirmish,  taken  to  hospital, 
At  present  low,  hut  will  soon  he  better. 

Ah  !  now  the  single  figure  to  me 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio,  with   all  its  cities  and 

farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  juBt  grown  daughter  speaks 

through  her  sobs  ; 
The  little  sisters  huddle  around,  speechless  and  dismayed). 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  soon  he  better. 


JUPITER   AND   TEN.  153 

Alas,  poor  boy  !  he  "will  never  be  better  (nor,  maybe,  needs  to 

be  better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul). 
While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  akeady, 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better ; 

She,  with  thin  form,  presently  dressed  in  black ; 

By  day  her  meals  untouched,  —  then  at  night  fitfully  sleep- 
ing, often  waking. 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  long- 
in  <>■ 

0  that  she  might  withdi'aw  imnoticed,  silent  from  life,  escape 
and  withdraw, 

To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son  ! 


JUPITER  AND   TEN. —J.  T.  Fields. 

'ly /TRS.  CHUB  was  rich  and  portly, 
-LVJ-     Mrs.  Chub  was  very  grand, 
Mrs.  Chub  was  always  reckoned 
A  lady  in  the  land. 

You  shall  see  her  marble  mansion 
In  a  very  stately  square,  — 

Mr.  C.  knows  what  it  cost  him. 
But  that  's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Mrs.  Chub  was  so  sagacious, 

Such  a  patron  of  the  arts, 
And  she  gave  such  foreign  orders, 

That  she  won  all  foreign  hearts. 

Mrs.  Chub  was  always  talking, 
When  she  went  away  from  home, 
7* 


154  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Of  a  most  prodigious  painting 
Which  had  just  arrived  from  Rome. 

"  Such  a  treasure,"  she  insisted, 
"  One  might  never  see  again  !  " 

"  What  's  the  subject  1 "  we  inquired. 
"  It  is  Jupiter  and  Ten  !  " 

"  Ten  what  ?  "  we  blandly  asked  her, 
For  the  knowledge  we  did  lack. 

"  Ah  !  that  I  cannot  tell  you, 
But  the  name  is  on  the  back. 

"  There  it  stands  in  printed  letters,  — 
Come  to-morrow,  gentlemen,  — 

Come  and  see  our  splendid  painting, 
Our  fine  Jupiter  and  Ten.  " 

When  Mrs.  Chub  departed. 
Our  brains  began  to  rack,  — 

She  could  not  be  mistaken, 

For  the  name  was  on  the  back. 

So  we  begged  a  great  Professor 

To  lay  aside  his  pen, 
And  give  some  information 

Touching  "  Jupiter  and  Ten." 

And  we  pondered  well  the  subject, 
And  our  Lempriere  we  turned, 

To  find  out  who  the  Ten  were ; 

But  we  could  not,  though  we  burned 

But  when  we  saw  the  picture,  — 
0  Mrs.  Chub  !  0,  fie  !  0  ! 

We  perused  the  printed  label. 
And  't  was  Jupiter  and  To  ! 


JEAXIE  DEANS   AND   QUEEN   CAEOLINE.  155 


JEANIE  DEANS  AND   QUEEN   CAEOLINE. 
Walter  Scott. 

THE  Duke  of  Argrle  made  a  signal  for  Jcaiiie  to  advance 
from  the  spot  where  she  had  hitherto  remained,  watch- 
ing couutenances  which  were  too  long  accustomed  to  suppress 
all  apparent  signs  of  emotion  to  convey  to  her  any  interest- 
ing intelligence.  Her  Majesty  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
awe-struck  manner  in  which  the  quiet,  demure  figure  of  the 
little  Scotchwoman  advanced  towards  her,  and  yet  more  at 
the  first  sound  of  her  broad  Northern  accent.  But  Jeanie 
had  a  voice  low  and  sweetly  toned,  — an  admirable  thing  in 
woman,  —  and  she  besought  "  her  leddyship  to  have  pity  on  a 
poor,  misguided  young  creature,"  in  tones  so  affecting  that, 
like  the  notes  of  some  of  her  native  songs,  provincial  vulgarity 
was  lost  in  pathos. 

The  queen  asked  Jeanie  how  she  travelled  up  from  Scotland. 

"  On  foot  mostly,  madam,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What !  all  that  imrq^nse  way  on  foot !  How  fixr  can  you 
walk  in  a  day  ] " 

"  Five-and-twenty  miles,  and  a  bittock." 

"And  a  what  1"  said  the  queen,  looking  towards  the  Duke 
of  Argyle. 

"'And  about  five  miles  more,"  replied  the  duke. 

"  r  thought  T  was  a  good  walker,"  said  the  queen ;  "  but 
this  shames  me  sadly.  " 

"  May  your  leddyship  never  hae  sae  weary  a  heart  that  ye 
canna  be  sensible  of  the  weariness  of  the  limbs  !  "  said  Jeanie. 
"And  I  didna,  just  a'  thegether,  walk  the  hail  way  neither; 
for  I  had  whiles  the  cast  of  a  cart,  and  I  had  the  cast  of  a 
horse  from  Ferrybridge,  and  divers  other  easements,"  said 
Jeanie,  cutting  short  her  story  ;  for  she  observed  the  duke 
made  the  sigh  he  had  fixed  upon. 

"With  all  these  accommodations,"  answered  the  queen,  "  you 
must  have  had  a  vcr\'  fatiguing  journey,  and  I  fear  to  little 
purpose ;  since,  if  the  king  were  to  pardon  your  sister,  in  all 


156  PUBLIC   AJS[D   PARLOR   READINGS. 

probability  it  would  do  her  little  good ;    for  I  suppose  your 
people  of  Edinburgh  would  hang  her  out  of  spite." 

"  She  will  sink  herself  now  outright,"  thought  the  duke. 
But  he  was  wrong.  This  rock  was  above  water,  and  she 
avoided  it. 

"  She  was  confident,"  she  said,  "  that  baith  toiyn  and 
countiy  wad  rejoice  to  see  his  Majesty  taking  compassion  on  a 
poor  unfriended  creature." 

"  His  Majesty  has  not  found  it  so  in  a  late  instance,"  said 
the  queen;  "but  I  suppose  my  lord  duke  would  advise  him 
to  be  guided  by  the  votes .  of  the  rabble  themselves,  who 
should  be  hanged  and  who  spared;" 

"  No,  madam,"  said  the  duke ;  "  but  I  would  advise  his 
Majesty  to  be  guided  by  his  own  feelings  and  those  of  his 
royal  consort ;  and  then  I  am  sure  punishment  will  only 
attach  itself  to  guilt,  and  even  then  with  cautious  reluctance." 

"  Well,  my  lord,"  said  her  Majesty,  "  all  these  fine  speeches 
do  not  convince  me  of  the  propriety  of  so  soon  showing  favor _ 
to  your  —  I  suppose  I  must  not  say  rebellious  —  but,  at  least, 
your  very  disaffected  and  intractablt  metropolis.  Why,  the 
whole  nation  is  in  a  league  to  screen  the  savage  and  abomi- 
nable murderers  of  that  unhappy  man ;  otherwise,  how  is  it 
possible  but  that,  of  so  many  perpetrators,  and  engaged  in  so 
public  an  action  for  such  a  length  of  time,  one,  at  least,  must 
have  been  recognized  1  Even  this  wench,  for  aught  I  can  tell, 
may  be  a  depositary  of  the  secret.  Hark  ye,  young  woman, 
had  you  any  friends- engaged  in  the  Porteous  mob  1" 

"  No,  madam,"  answered  Jeanie ;  happy  that  the  question 
was  so  framed  that  she  could,  with  a  good  conscience,  answer 
it  in  the  negative. 

"  But  I  suppose,"  continued  the  queen,  "  if  you  were  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  secret,  you  would  hold  it  matter  of  con- 
science to  keep  it  to  yourself" 

"  I  would  pray  to  be  directed  and  guided  in  the  line  of 
duty,  madam,"  answered  Jeanie. 

"  Yes,  and  take  that  which  suited  your  own  inclinations," 
replied  her  Majesty. 


JEANIE  DEANS   AND   QUEEN   CAROLINE.  157 

"  If  it  like  you,  madam,"  said  Jeanie,  "  I  would  hae'  gaen 
to  the  end  o'  the  earth  to  save  the  life  of  John  Porteous,  or  of 
any  other  unhappy  man  in  his  condition ;  but  I  might  law- 
fully doubt  how  far  I  am  called  upon  to  be  the  avenger  of 
his  l)lood,  though  it  may  become  the  civil  magistrate  to"  do 
so.  He  is  dead  and  gane  to  his  place  ;  and  they  that  have 
slain  him  must  answer  for  their  ain  act.  But  my  sister  — 
my  puir  sister,  Effie  —  still  lives,  though  her  days  and  hours 
are  numbered.  She  still  lives,  and  a  word  of  the  king's 
mouth  might  restore  her  to  a  broken-hearted  auld  man,  that 
never,  in  his  daily  and  nightly  exercise,  forgot  to  pray  that 
his  Majesty  might  be  blessed  with  a  long  and  a  prosperous 
reign  ;  and  that  his  throne,  and  the  throne  of  his  posterity, 
might  be  established  in  righteousness.  0  madam,  if  ever  ye 
kenned  what  it  was  to  sorrow  for  and  with  a  sinning  and  suf- 
fering creature,  whose  mind  is  sae  tossed  that  she  can  be 
neither  ca'd  fit  to  live  or  die,  —  have  some  compassion  on 
our  misery  !  Save  an  honest  house  from  dishonor,  and  an 
unhappy  girl,  not  eighteen  years  of  age,  from  an  eai'ly  and 
dreadful  death.  Alas  !  it  is  not  when  we  sleep  soft,  and 
wake  merrily  ourselves,  that  we  think  on  other  people's  suf- 
ferings. Our  hearts  are  waxed  light  within  us  then  ;  and  we 
are  for  righting  our  ain  wrongs,  and  fighting  our  ain  battles. 
But  when  the  hour  of  trouble  comes  to  the  mind,  or  to  the 
body,  —  and  seldom  may  it  visit  your  leddyship,  —  and  when 
the  hour  of  death  comes,  that  comes  to  high  and  low,  —long 
and  late  may  it  be  yours,  —  0  my  leddy,  then,  it  is  na  what 
■we  have  dune  for  oursels,  but  what  we  have  dune  for  otliers, 
that  we  think  on  maist  pleasantly.  And  the  thoughts,  that 
ye  hae  intervened  to  spare  the  puir  thing's  life  will  be  sweeter 
in  that  hour,'  come  when  it  tnay,  than  if  a  word  of  your 
mouth  could  hang  the  hail  Porteous  mob  at  the  tail  of  ao 
tow." 

Tear  f(jllowed  tear  down  Jeanie's  cheek,  as,  wnth  features 
glowing  and  quivering  with  emotion,  she  pleaded  her  sister's 
cause,  with  a  pathos  which  was  at  once  simple  and  solemn. 

"  This    is    eloquence,"   said    her    Majesty  to  the  Duke  of 


158         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Argyle.  "  Young  woman,"  she  continued,  addressing  her- 
self to  Jeanie,  "  I  cannot  grant  a  pardon  to  your  sister,  but 
you  shall  not  want  my  warm  intercession  with  his  Majesty. 
Take  this  housewife  case,"  she  continued,  piitting  a  small 
embroidered  needle-case  into  Jeanie's  hands  ;  "  do  not  open 
it  now,  but  at  your  leisure  ;  you  will  find  something  in  it 
■which  will  remind  you  that  you  have  had  an  interview  with 
Queen  Carolirte." 

Jeanie,  having  her  suspicions  thus  confirmed,  dropped  on 
her  knees,  and  would  have  expanded  herself  in  gratitude ; 
but  the  duke,  who  was  upon  thorns  lest  she  should  say  more 
or  less  than  just  enough,  touched  his  chin  once  more. 

"Our  business  is,  I  think,  ended  for  the  present,  my  lord 
duke,"  said  the  queen,  "  and,  I  trust,  to  your  satisfaction. 
Hereafter  I  hope  to  see  your  Grace  more  frequently,  both  at 
Richmond  and  St.  James's.  Come,  Lady  Suffolk,  we  must 
wish  his  Grace  good  morning." 

They  exchanged  their  parting  reverences,  and  the  duke,  so 
soon  as  the  ladies  had  turned  their  backs,  assisted  Jeanie  to 
rise  from  the  gi'ound,  and  conducted  her  back  through  the 
avenue,  —  which  she  trod  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  walks 
in  her  sleep. 


OUR   SISTER.  —  Household  Words. 

~1    TP  many  flights  of  crazy  stairs, 

W     Whei'e  oft  one's  head  knocks  unawares ; 
With  a  rickety  table  and  without  chairs, 
And  only  a  stool  to  kneel  to  prayers, 

Dwells  our  sister. 

There  is  no  carpet  upon  the  floor, 
The  wind  whistles  in  through  the  cracks  of  the  door  ; 
One  might  reckon  her  miseries  now  bv  the  score, 
But  •who  feels  interest  in  one  so  poor  1 

Yet  she  is  our  sister  ! 


THE  BATTLE.  159 

She  once  was  blooming  and  young  and  fail*, 
With  bright  blue  eyes  and  auburn  hair ; 
Now  the  rose  is  eaten  with  cankered  care, 
And  her  poor  face  is  marked  with  a  grim  despair,  — 

Our  poor  sister. 

When  at  early  morning,  to  rest  her  head, 
She  throws  herself  on  her  weary  bed, 
Longing  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  dead, 
Since  youth  and  health  and  love  are  fled,  — 

Pity  our  sister. 

But  the  bright  sun  shines  on  her  and  me, 
And  on  mine  and  hers,  as  on  thine  and  thee, 
And  whatever  our  lot  in  life  may  be, 
Whether  of  low  or  high  degree,  — 
Still  she  's  our  sister  !  always  our  sister ! 
Pity  her,  succor  her,  pray  for  our  sister  ! 


THE   BATTLE.  —  Schiller. 
Translated  by  Bulwek  Lytton- 

HEAVY  and  solemn, 
A  cloudy  column, 
Through  the  green  plain  they  marching  come  ! 
Measiu-eless  spread  like  a  table  dread, 
For  the  wild  grim  dice  of  the  iron  game. 
Looks  are  bent  on  the  shaking  ground. 
Hearts  beat  loud  with  a  knelling  sound ; 
Swift  by  the  breasts  that  nuist  boar  the  brunt. 
Gallops  the  Major  along  the  front : 

"Halt!" 
And  fettered  they  stand  at  the  stark  command, 
And  the  warriors,  silent,  halt ! 

Proud  in  the  blush  of  morning  glowing. 
What  on  the  hill-top  shines  in  flowing  ] 
".See  you  the  foemen's  banners  waving  1 " 


160  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

"  We  see  the  foeman's  banners  waving  !  " 

"God  be  with  ye,  children  and  wife  !" 

Hark  to  the  music,  —  the  trump  and  the  fife,  — 

How  they  ring  tiirough  the  ranks,  which  they  rouse  to  the  strife ! 

ThrilHng  they  sound,  with  tlieir  glorious  tone, 

Thrilling  they  go  through  the  marrow  and  bone  ! 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more  ! 

See  the  smoke  how  the  lightning  is  cleaving  asimder  ! 

Hark  !  the  guns,  peal  on  peal,  how  they  boom  in  their  thunder  ! 

From  host  to  host,  with  kindling  sound, 

The  shouted  signal  circles  round  ; 

Ay,  shout  it  forth  to  life  or  death,  - 

Freer  ah-eady  breathes  the  breath  ! 

The  war  is  waging,  slaughter  raging. 

And  heavy  through  the  reeking  pall 

The  iron  death-dice  fall ! 
Nearer  they  close,  —  foes  upon  foes,  — 
"  Ready  !  "  — from  square  to  square  it  goes. 

They  kneel  as  one  man  from  flank  to  flank. 
The  fire  conies  sharp  from  the  foremost  rank, 
Many  a  soldier  to  the  earth  is  sent, 
Many  a  gap  by  balls  is  rent ; 
O'er  the  corpse  before  springs  the  hinder  man. 
That  the  line  may  not  fail  to  the  fearless  van. 
To  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  around  and  around, 
Death  whirls  in  its  dance  on  the  bloody  ground. 
God's  sunlight  is  quenched  in  the  fiery  fight, 
Over  the  hosts  falls  a  brooding  night ! 
Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more  ! 

The  dead  men  lie  bathed  in  the  weltering  blood, 

And  the  living  are  blent  in  the  slippery  flood. 

And  the  feet,  as  they  reeling  and  sliding  go, 

Stumble  still  on  the  corses  that  sleep  below, 

"  What  !  Francis  ! "     "  Give  Charlotte  my  last  farewell." 


THE   YOUNG   GRAY   HEAD.  161 

As  the  dying  man  murmurs  the  thunders  swell,  — 

"I  '11  give  —     0  God  !  are  their  guns  so  near  ] 

Ho  !  comi'ades  !  —  yon  volley  !  —  look  sharp  to  the  rear ! 

I  '11  give  to  thy  Charlotte  thy  last  farewell ; 

Sleep  soft !  where  death  thickest  descendeth  in  rain, 

The  friend  thou  forsakest  thy  side  may  regain !  " 

Hitherward,  thitherward  reels  the  fight ; 

Dark  and  more  darkly  day  glooms  into  night. 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more  ! 

Hark  to  the  hoofs  that  galloping  go  ! 

The  adjutants  flying,  — 
The  horsemen  press  hard  on  the  panting  foe, 
Their  thunder  booms  in  dying,  — 

Victory  ! 
Terror  has  seized  on  the  dastards  all, 
And  their  colors  fall  ! 

Victory ! 

Closed  is  the  brunt  of  the  glorious  fight ; 

And  the  day,  like  a  conqueror,  bursts  on  the  night ; 

Trumpet  and  fife  swelling  choral  along. 

The  triumph  already  sweeps  marching  in  song. 

Farewell,  fallen  brothers  ;  though  this  life  be  o'er, 

There  's  another,  in  which  we  shall  meet  you  once  more ! 


THE  YOUNG  GRAY  YiE.kT>.  — Blackwood's  Magazine. 

MOTHER,"  quoth  Ambrose  to  his  thrifty  dame,  — 
So  oft  our  peasant's  use  his  wife  to  name, 
*'  Father,"  and  "  Master,"  to  himself  applied. 
As  life's  gi'ave  duties  m;itronize  the  bride,  — 
"Mother,"  quoth  Ambrose,  as  he  faced  the  north, 
With  hard-set  teeth,  before  he  issued  forth     • 
To  his  day  labor,  from  the  cottage  door,  — 


162         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOK  READINGS. 

"I  'm  thinking  that,  to-night,  if  not  before, 

There  '11  be  wild  work.     Dost  hear  Old  Chewton*  roar  ] 

It  's  brewing  up  down  westward  ;  and  look  there, 

One  of  those  sea-gulls  !  ay,  there  goes  a  pair  ; 

And  such  a  sudden  thaw  !     If  rain  comes  on, 

As  threats,  the  waters  will  be  out  anon. 

That  path  by  th'  ford  's  a  nasty  bit  of  way,  — 

Best  let  the  young  ones  bide  from  school  to-day." 

"  Do,  mother,  do  !  "  the  quick-eared  urchins  cried,  — 

Two  little  lasses  to  the  fiither's  side 

Close  clinging  as  they  looked  from  him,  to  spy 

The  answering  language  of  the  mother's  eye. 

There  was  denial,  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Nay,  nay,  —  no  harm  will  come  to  them,"  she  said, 

"  The  mistress'  lets  them  off  these  short  dark  days 

An  hour  the  earlier ;  and  our  Liz,  she  says. 

May  quite  be  trusted  —  and  I  know  't  is  true  — 

To  take  care  of  herself  and  Jenny  too. 

And  so  she  ought,  —  she  's  seven  come  first  of  May,  — 

Two  years  the  oldest ;  and  they  give  away 

The  Christmas  bounty  at  the  school  to-day." 

The  mother's  will  was  law,  (alas  for  her 

That  hapless  day,  poor  soul  !  )    She  could  not  err, 

Thought  Ambrose ;  and  his  little  fair-haired  Jane 

(Her  namesake)  to  his  heart  he  hugged  again^ 

When  each  had  had  her  turn  ;  she  clinging  so 

As  if  that  day  she  could  not  let  him  go. 

But  Labor's  sons  must  snatch  a  hasty  bliss 

In  nature's  tenderest  mood.     One  last  fond  kiss,  — 

"  God  bless  my  little  maids  j  "  the  father  said, 

And  cheerly  went  his  way  to  win  their  bread. 

So  to  the  mother's  charge,  with  thoughtful  brow, 
The  docile  Lizzy  stood  attentive  now ; 

*  A  fresh-water  spring  rushing  into  the  sea,  called  Chewton  Bunny. 


THE  YOUNG  GEAY  HEAD.  163 

Proud  of  her  years  and  of  imputed  sense, 
And  prudence  justifying  confidence. 
And  little  Jenny,  more  demurely  still, 
Beside  her  waited  the  maternal  will. 
So  standing  hand  in  hand,  a  lovelier  twain 
Gainsborough  ne'er  painted  ;  no,  nor  he  of  Spain, 
Glorious  Murillo  !  — and  by  contrast  shown 
More  beautiful,  —  the  younger  little  one, 
With  large  blue  eyes,  and  silken  ringlets  fair, 
By  nut-brown  Lizzy,  with  smooth  parted  hair 
Sable  and  glossy  as  the  raven's  wing, 
And  lustrous  eyes  as  dai'L 

"  Now  mind  and  bring 
Jenny  safe  home,"  the  mother  said ;  "  don't  stay 
To  pull  a  bough  or  berry  by  the  way ; 
And  when  you  come  to  cross  the  ford,  hold  fast 
Your  little  sister's  hand,  till  you  're  quite  past,  — 
That  plank  's  so  crazy,  and  so  slippery 
(If  not  o'erflowed)  the  stepping-stones  will  be. 
But  you  're  good  children,  —  steady  as  old  folk, 
I  'd  trust  ye  anywhere."     Then  Lizzy's  cloak, 
A  good  gray  duffle,  lovingly  she  tied, 
And  amply  little  Jenny's  lack  supplied 
With  her  own  warmest  shawl.      "  Be  sure,"  said  she, 
"  To  wrap  it  roimd  and  knot  it  carefully 
(Like  this)  when  you  come  home  ;  just  leaving  free 
One  hand  to  hold  by.     Now,  make  haste  away,  — 
Good  will  to  school,  and  then  good  right  to  play." 

Was  thci'e  no  sinking  at  the  mother's  heart, 

When  all  equipt,  they  turned  them  to  depart  1 

When  down  the  lane,  she  watched  them  as  they  went 

Till  out  of  sight,  was  no  foreboding  sent 

Of  coming  ill  1     In  truth  I  cannot  tell  ; 

Such  warnings  have  been  sent,' we  know  full  well, 

And  must  believe  —  believing  that  they  are  — • 


164         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

In  mercy  then,  —  to  rouse  —  restrain  —  prepare. 

And,  now  I  mind  me,  something  of  the  kind 

Did  surely  haunt  that  day  the  mother's  mind, 

Making  it  irksome  to  bide  all  alone 

By  her  own  quiet  hearth.     Though  never  known 

For  idle  gossipry  was  Jenny  Gray, 

Yet  so  it  was,  that  morn  she  could  not  stay 

At  home  with  her  own  thoughts,  but  took  her  way 

To  her  next  neighbor's,  half  a  loaf  to  bon-ow,  — 

Yet  might  her  store  have  lasted  out  the  morrow,  — 

And  with  the  loan  obtained,  she  lingered  still. 

Said  she  :  "  My  master,  if  he  'd  had  his  will, 

Woxild  have  kept  back  our  little  ones  from  school 

This  dreadful  morning ;  and  I  'm  such  a  fool, 

Since  they  've  been  gone,  I  've  wished  them  back.     But  then 

It  won't  do  in  such  things  to  humor  men,  — 

Our  Ambrose  specially.     If  let  alone, 

He  'd  spoil  those  children.     But  it 's  coming  on,  — 

That  storm  he  said  was  brewing,  —  sure  enough  — 

Well !  what  of  that  ?  —  To  think  what  idle  stuflf 

Will  come  into  one's  head  !  and  here  with  you 

I  stop,  as  if  I  'd  nothing  else  to  do. 

And  they  '11  come  home  drowned  rats.     I  must  be  gone 

To  get  dry  things,  and  set  the  kettle  on." 

His  day's  work  done,  three  mortal  miles  and  more 
Lay  between  Ambrose  and  his  cottage  door. 
A  weary  way,  God  wot !  for  weary  wight ! 
But  yet  far  off,  the  curling  smoke  in  sight 
From  his  own  chimney,  and  his  heart  felt  light. 

•  •  •  •  • 

With  what  a  thankful  gladness  in  his  face, 
(Silent  heart-homage,  —  plant  of  special  grace  !  ) 
At  the  lane's  entrance,  slackening  oft  his  pace, 
Would  Ambrose  send  a  loving  look  before  ; 
Conceiting  the  caged  blackbird  at  the  door, 
The  very  blackbird  strained  its  little  throat    . 


THE  YOUNG  GRAY  HEAD.  165 

In  welcome,  with  a  moi-e  rejoicing  note  ; 
And  honest  Tinker  !  dog  of  doubtful  breed, 
All  bristle,  back,  and  tail,  but  "good  at  need," 
Pleasant  his  greeting  to  the  accustomed  ear ; 
But  of  all  welcomes  pleasantest,  most  dear. 
The  ringing  voices,  like  s"weet  silver  bells, 
Of  his  two  little  ones.     How  fondly  swells 
The  father's  heart,  as,  dancing  up  the  lane. 
Each  clasps  a  hand  in  her  small  hand  again  ; 
And  each  must  tell  her  tale,  and  "  say  her  say," 
Impeding  as  she  leads,  with  sweet  delay, 
(Childhood's  blest  thoughtlessness  !)  his  onward  way. 

Such  was  the  hour  —  hour  sacred  and  apax't  — 
Warmed  in  expectancy  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Summer  and  winter,  as  his  toil  he  plied. 
To  him  and  his  the  literal  doom  applied, 
Pronounced  on  Adam.     But  the  bread  was  sweet 
So  earned,  for  such  dear  mouths.     The  weary  feet, 
Hope-shod,  stept  lightly  on  the  homeward  way ; 
So  specially  it  fared  with  Ambrose  Gray 
That  time  I  tell  of.     He  had  worked  all  day 
At  a  great  clearing ;  vigorous  stroke  on  stroke 
Striking,  till,  when  he  stopt,  his  back  seemed  broke 
And  the  strong  arm  dropt  nerveless.     What  of  that  ? 
There  was  a  treasure  hidden  in  his  hat,  — 
A  plaything  for  the  young  ones.     He  had  found 
A  dormouse-nest ;  the  living  ball  coiled  round 
For  its  long  winter  sleep  ;  and  all  his  thought. 
As  he  trudged  stoutly  homeward,  was  of  naught 
But  the  glad  wondeniieut  in  Jenny's  eyes, 
And  graver  Lizzy's  quieter  surprise 
When  he  should  yield,  by  guess  and  kiss  and  prayer, 
Hard  won,  the  frozen  captive  to  their  care. 

'T  was  a  wild  evening,  —  wild  and  rough.     "  I  knew," 
Thought  Ambrose,  "those  unlucky  gulls  sj^oke  true, — 


166  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

And  Gaffer  Chewton  never  growls  for  naught,  — 

I  should  be  mortal  mazed  now,  if  I  thought 

My  little  maids  were  not  safe  housed  before 

That  blinding  hail-storm,  —  ay,  this  hour  and  more,  — 

Unless  by  that  old  ci-azy  bit  of  board, 

They  've  not  passed  dry-foot  over  Shallow  Ford, 

That  I  '11  be  bound  for,  —  swollen  as  it  must  be  — 

Well !  if  my  mistress  had  been  ruled  by  me  —  " 

But,  checking  the  half-thought  as  heresy, 

He  looked  out  for  the  Home-Star.     There  it  shone, 

And  with  a  gladdened  heart  he  hastened  on. 

He  's  in  the  lane  again,  —  and  there  below, 

Streams  from  the  door-way  that  red  glow, 

"Which  warms  him  but  to  look  at.     For  his  prize 

Cautious  he  feels,  —  all  safe  and  snug  it  lies,  — 

"  Down,  Tinker  !  —  down,  old  boy  !  —  not  quite  so  free,  — 

The  thing  thou  snifFest  is  no  game  for  thee.  — 

But  what 's  the  meaning  1  —  no  look-out  to-night ! 

No  living  soul  astir  !  —  Pray  God,  all 's  right ! 

Who  's  flittering  round  the  peat-stack  in  such  weather  ] 

Mother  ! "     You  might  have  felled  him  with  a  feather 

When  the  short  answer  to  his  loud  "  Hillo  ! " 

And  the  hurried  question,  "Are  they  come]"  was  "No!" 

To  throw  his  tools  down,  hastily  unhook 
The  old  cracked  lantern  from  its  dusty  nook, 
And  while  he  lit  it,  speak  a  cheering  word. 
That  almost  choked  him,  and  was  scarcely  beard, 
Was  but  a  moment's  act,  and  he  was  gone 
To  where  a  fearful  foresight  led  him  on. 
Passing  a  neighbor's  cottage  in  his  way,  — 
Mark  Fenton's,  —  him  he  took  with  short  delay 
To  bear  him.  company,  —  for  who  could  say 
What  need  might  be  1     They  struck  into  the  track 
The  children  should  have  taken  coming  back 
From  school  that  day ;  and  many  a  call  and  shout 


THE  YOUNG  GRAY  HEAD.  1G7 

Into  the  pitchy  darkness  they  sent  out, 

And,  by  the  lantern  light,  peered  all  about,  ' 

In  every  roadside  thicket,  hole,  and  nook, 

Till  suddenly  —  as  nearing  now  the  brook  — ' 

Something  brushed  past  them.     That  was  Tinker's  bark ; 

Unheeded,  he  had  followed  in  the  dark, 

Close  at  his  master's  heels,  but,  swift  as  light. 

Darted  before  them  now.      "  Be  sure  he  's  right,  — 

He  's  on  the  track,"  cried  Ambrose.     "  Hold  the  light 

Low  down,  —  he  's  making  for  the  water.     Hark  ! 

I  know  that  whine,  —  the  old  dog  's  found  them,  Mark." 

So  speaking,  breathlessly  he  hurried  on 

Toward  the  old  crazy  foot-bridge.     It  was  gone  !  / 

And  all  his  dull,  contracted  light  could  show 

AVas  the  black  void  and  dark  swollen  stream  below. 

"  Yet  there  's  life  somewhere,  more  than  Tinker's  whine,  — 

That 's  sure,"  said  Mark.     "  So  let  the  lantern  shine 

Down  yonder.     There 's  the  dog,  —  and,  hark  !  "     "0  dear  !  " 

And  a  low  sob  came  faintly  on  the  ear. 

Mocked  by  the  sobbing  gust.     Down,  quick  as  thought. 

Into  the  stream  leapt  Ambrose,  where  he  caught 

Fast  hold  of  something,  —  a -dark  huddled  heap,  — 

Half  in  the  water,  where  't  was  scarce  knee-deep. 

For  a  tall  man  ;  and  half  above  it,  propped 

By  some  old  ragged  side-piles,  that  had  stopt 

Endways  the  broken  plank,  when  it  gave  way 

With  the  two  little  ones  that  luckless  day ! 

"My  babes  !  my  lambkins  !  "  was  the  father's  cry. 

One  little  voice  made  answer,   "  Here  am  I  !  " 

'T  was  Lizzy's.     There  she  crouched,  with  face  as  white, 

ilore  ghastly,  by  the  flickering  lantern  light. 

Than  sheeted  corpse.     The  pale  blue  lips,  drawn  tight, 

"Wide  parted,  showing  all  the  pearly  teeth. 

And  eyes  on  some  dark  object  underneath. 

Washed  by  the  turbid  water,  fixed  like  stone,  — 

One  arm  and  hand  stretched  out,  and  rigid  grown, 

Grasping,  as  in  the  death-gripe,  —  Jenny's  frock. 


1G8  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

There  she  lay  drowned.     Could  he  sustain  that  shock, 

The  doating  father  ?     Where  's  the  unriven  rock 

Cau  bide  such  blasting  in  its  flintiest  part 

As  th3,t  soft  sentient  thing,  the  human  heart  1 

They  lifted  her  from  out  her  watery  bed,  — 

Its  covering  gone,  the  lonely  little  head 

Hung  like  a  broken  snow-drop  all  aside, 

And  one  small  hand.     The  mother's  shawl  was  tied, 

Leaving  that  free,  about  the  child's  small  form. 

As  was  her  last  injunction,  —  "fast  and  warm,"  — 

Too  well  obeyed,  — -  too  fast  !     A  fatal  hold 

Affording  to  the  scrag  by  a  thick  fold 

That  caught  and  pinned  her  in  the  river's  bed, 

While  through  the  reckless  water  overhead 

Her  life-breath  bubbled  up. 

"  She  might  have  lived 
Struggling  like  Lizzie,"  was  the  thought  that  rived 
The  wretched  mother's  heart  when  she  knew  all. 
"  But  for  my  foolishness  about  that  shawl,  — 
And  Master  would  have  kept  them  back  the  day ; 
But  I  was  wilful,  —  driving  them  away 
In  such  wild  weather  ! '' 

Thus  the  tortured  heart 
Unnaturally  against  itself  takes  part, 
Driving  the  sharp  edge  deeper  of  a  woe 
Too  deep  already.     They  had  raised  her  now, 
And,  parting  the  wet  ringlets  from  her  brow, 
To  that,  and  the  cold  cheek,  and  lips  as  cold, 
The  father  glued  his  warm  ones,  ere  they  rolled 
Once  more  the  fatal  shawl  —  her  winding-sheet  — 
About  the  precious  clay.     One  heart  still  beat. 
Warmed  by  his  heart's  blood.     To  his  onli/  child 
He  turned  him,  but  her  piteous  moaning  mild 
Pierced  him  afresh,  —  and  now  she  knew  him  not. 
"  Mother  !  "  she  murmui'ed,   "  who  says  I  forgot  1 
Mother  !  indeed,  indeed,  I  kept  fast  hold, 
•And  tied  the  shawl  quite  close,  —  she  can't  be  cold,  — 


THE   YOUNG    GRAY    UEAD.  169 

But  she  won't  move,  —  we  slipt,  —  I  don't  know  how,  — 
But  I  held  on,  —  and  I  'm  so  weary  now,  — 
And  it 's  so  dark  and  cold  !     0  dear  !  0  dear  !  — 
And  she  won't  move,  —  if  daddy  was  but  here  1 " 

Poor  lanib,  she  wandered  in  her  mind,  't  was  clear ; 
But  soon  the  piteous  murmur  died  away, 
And  quiet  in  her  father's  arms  she  lay,  — • 
They  their  dead  burden  had  resigned,  to  take 
The  living  so  near  lost.     For  her  dear  sake, 
And  one  at  home,  he  armed  himself  to  bear 
His  misery  like  a  man,  —  with  tender  care, 
Doffing  his  coat  her  shivering  form  to  fold, 
(His  neighbor  bearing  that  which  felt  no  cold,) 
He  clasped  her  close  ;  and  so,  with  little  said, 
Homeward  they  bore  the  living  and  the  dead. 

From  Ambrose  Gray's  poor  cottage,  all  that  night, 

Shone  fitfully  a  little  shifting  light, 

Above,  below,  —  for  all  were  watchers  there 

Save  one  sound  sleeper.     Her,  parental  care, 

Parental  watchfulness,  availed  not  now. 

B\it  in  the  young  survivor's  throbbing  brow, 

And  wandering  eyes,  delirious  fever  burned ; 

And  all  night  long  from  side  to  side  she  turned, 

Piteously  plaining  like  a  wounded  dove, 

With  now  and  then  a  murmur,  —  "  She  won't  move," 

And  lo  !  when  morning,  as  in  mockery,  bright 

Shone  on  that  pillow,  —  passing  strange  the  sight,  — 

That  young  head's  raven  hair  was  streaked  with  white  i 

No  idle  fiction  this.     Such  things  have  been, 

We  know.     And  noiv  I  tell  what  I  leave  seen. 

Life  struggled  long  with  death  in  that  small  frame, 
But  it  was  strong,  and  conquered.     All  became 
As  it  had  been  with  the  poor  family,  — 
All,  saving  that  which  nevermore  might  be,  — 
There  was  an  empty  place,  —  they  were  but  three. 
8 


170  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 


BOB   CRATCHIT'S   DINNER.  —  Dickexs. 

BUT  soon  the  steeples  called  good  people  all  to  church 
and  chapel,  and  away  they  came,  flocking  through  the 
streets  in  their  best  clothes,  and  with  their  gayest  faces. 
And  at  the  same  time  there  emerged  from  scores  of  by 
streets,  lanes,  and  nameless  turnings  innumerable  people 
carrying  their  dinners  to  the  bakers'  shops. 

Up  then  rose  Mrs.  Cratchit,  Cratchit's  wife,  dressed  out 
but  poorly  in  a  twice-txu-ned  gown,  but  brave  in  ribbons, 
which  are  cheap  and  make  a  goodly  show  for  sixpence  ;  and 
she  laid  the  cloth,  assisted  by  Belinda  Cratchit,  second  of 
her  daughters,  also  brave  in  ribbons ;  w^hile  Master  Peter 
Cratchit  plunged  a  fork  into  the  saucepan  of  potatoes,  and, 
getting  the  comers  of  his  monstrous  shirt-collar  (Bob's  pri- 
vate property,  conferred  upon  his  son  and  heir  in  honor  of 
the  day)  into  his  mouth,  rejoiced  to  find  himself  so  gallantly 
attired,  and  yearned  to  show  his  linen  in  the  fashionable 
Parks.  And  now  two  smaller  Cratchits,  boy  and  girl,  came 
tearing  in,  screaming  that  outside  the  baker's  thev  had  smelt 
the  goose,  and  known  it  for  their  own ;  and,  basking  in  luxu- 
rious thoughts  of  sage  and  onion,  these  young  Cratchits 
danced  about  the  table,  and  exalted  Master  Peter  Cratchit  to 
the  skies,  while  he  (not  proud,  although  his  collars  nearly 
choked  him)  blew  the  fire,  until  the  slow  potatoes,  bubbling 
xip,  knocked  loudly  at  the  saucepan-lid  to  be  let  out  and 
peeled. 

"  What  has  ever  got  your  precious  father  then  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Cratchit.  "And  your  brother  Tiny  Tim  !  and  Martha 
warn't  as  late  last  Christmas  day  by  half  an  hour  ! " 

"  Here  's  Martha,  mother  ! "  said  a  ghl,  appearing  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Here  's  Martha,  mother  !  "  cried  the  two  young  Cratchits. 
"  HuiTah  !     There  's  such  a  goose,  Martha  !  " 

"Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my  dear,  how  late  you  are  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Cratchit,  kissing  her  a  dozen  times,  and  taking  off 
her  shawl  and  bonnet  for  her. 


BOB   CRATCHIT'S   DINNER.  171 

*'  We  'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last  night,"  replied  the 
girl,  "  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning,  mother  !  " 

"  Well !  Never  mind  so  long  as  you  are  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit.  "  Sit  ye  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear,  and  have  a 
warm,  Lord  bless  ye  !  " 

"No,  no  !  There  's  father  coming,"  cried  the  two  young 
Cratchits,  who  were  everywhere  at  once.  "  Hide,  Martha, 
hide  ! " 

So  Martha  hid  herself,  and  in  came  little  Bob,  the  father, 
with  at  least  three  feet  of  comforter,  exclusive  of  the  fi'inge, 
hanging  down  before  him ;  and  his  threadbare  clothes  darned 
up  and  brushed,  to  look  seasonable  ;  and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his 
shoulder.  Alas  for  Tiny  Tim,  he  bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had 
his  limbs  supported  by  an  iron  frame  ! 

"  Wliy,  where  's  our  Martha? "  cried  Bob  Cratchit,  looking 
round. 

"  Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

"  Not  coming !  "  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  declension  in  his 
high  spirits  ;  for  he  had  been  Tim's  blood-horse  all  the  way 
from  cliurch,  and  had  come  home  rampant,  —  "not  coming 
upon  Christmas  day  !  " 

Martha  did  n't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were 
only  in  joke  ;  so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind  the 
closet  door,  and  ran  into  his  arms,  while  the  two  young 
Cratchits  hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and  bore  him  off  into  the 
wash-house,  that  he  might  hear  the  pudding  singing  in  the 
copper. 

"  And  how  did  little  Tim  behave  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
when  she  had  rallied  Bob  oil  his  credulity,  and  Bob  had 
hugged  his  daughter  to  his  heart's  content. 

"  As  good  as  gold,"  said  Bob,  "and  better.  Somehow  he 
gets  thoughtful, V sitting  by  himself  so  much,  and  thinks  the 
strangest  things  you  ever  heard.  He  told  me,  coming  home, 
that  he  hoped  the  people  saw  him  in  the  church,  because  he 
was  a  cripple,  and  it  might  be  pleasant  to  them  to  remember, 
upon  Christmas  day,  who  made  lame  beggars  walk  and  blind 
men  see." 


172         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  EEADINGS. 

Bob's  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  told  them  this,  and 
trembled  more  when  he  said  that  Tiny  Tim  was  growing 
strong  and  hearty. 

His  active  little  crntch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and  back 
came  Tiny  Tim  before  another  woi'd  was  spoken,  escorted  by 
his  brother  and  sister,  to  his  stool  beside  the  fire  ;  and  while 
Bob,  turning  up  his  cuffs,  —  as  if,  poor  fellow,  they  were 
capable  of  being  made  more  shabby,  —  compounded  some  hot 
mixture  in  a  jug  with  gin  and  lemons,  and  stirred  it  round 
and  round  and  put  it  on  the  hob  to  simmer.  Master  Peter  and 
the  two  ubiquitous  young  Cratchits  went  to  fetch  the  goose, 
with  which  they  soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Mrs.  Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in  a  little 
saucepan)  hissing  hot ;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  potatoes 
with  incredible  vigor  ;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  the  apple- 
sauce ;  Martha  dusted  the  hot  jjlates  ;  Bob  took  Tiny  Tim 
beside  him  in  a  tiny  corner  at  the  table  ;  the  two  young 
Oatchits  set  chairs  for  everybody,  not  forgetting  themselves, 
and,  moimting  guard  upon  their  posts,  crammed  spoons  into 
their  mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  for  goose  before  their 
turn  came  to  be  helped.  At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and 
grace  was  said.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as 
Mrs.  Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife,  pre- 
pared to  plunge  it  in  the  breast ;  but  when  she  did,  and 
when  the  long-expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one 
murmur  of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny 
Tim,  excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table 
with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried.  Hurrah  ! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  did  n't  believe 
there  ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness  and 
flavor,  size  and  cheapness,  were  the  themes  of  universal 
admiration.  Eked  out  by  apple-sauce  and  mashed  potatoes, 
it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole  family ;  indeed,  as 
Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight  (surveying  one  small 
atom  of  a  bone  iipon  the  dish),  they  had  n't  ate  it  all  at  last ! 
Yet  every  one  had  had  enough,  and  the  youngest  Cratchits 
in  particular  were  steeped  in  sage  and  onion  to  the  eyebrows ! 


BOB   CRATCHIT'S   DINNER.  173 

But  now,  the  plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs. 
Cratchit  left  the  room  alone,  —  too  nervous  to  bear  wit- 
nesses —  to  take  the  pudding  up,  and  bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough!  Suppose  it  should 
break  in  turniug  out !  Suppose  somebody  should  have  got 
over  the  wall  of  the  back  yard,  and  stolen  it,  wliile  they 
were  meny  with  the  goose,  —  a  supposition  at  which  the  two 
young  Cratchits  became  livid  !  All  sorts  of  horrors  were 
supposed. 

Hallo  !  A  gi'eat  deal  of  steam  !  The  pudding  was  out  of 
the  copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day  !  That  was  the 
cloth.  A  smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pastry-cook's  next 
door  to  each  other,  with  a  laundress's  next  door  to  that ! 
That  was  the  pudding !  In  half  a  minute  INfrs.  Cratchit 
entered  —  flushed,  but  smiling  proudly  —  Avith  the  pudding, 
like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard  and  firm,  blazing  in  half 
of  half  a  quartern  of  ignited  brandy,  and  bedight  with 
Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the  top. 

0,  a  wonderful  pudding  !  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and  calmly 
too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  gi-eatest  success  achieved  by 
Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that 
now  the  weight  was  off  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she  had 
had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity  of  flour.  Everybody  had 
something  to  say  about  it,  but  nobody  said  or  thought  it  was 
at  all  a  small  pudding  for  a  large  family.  Any  Cratchit 
would  have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a  thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared,  the 
hearth  swept,  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound  in  the 
jug  being  tasted,  and  considered  perfect,  apples  and  oranges 
were  put  upon  the  table,  and  a  shovelful  of  chestnuts  on  the 
fire. 

Then  all  the  Cratchit  family  drew  round  the  hearth,  in 
what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a  circle,  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow 
stood  the  family  display  of  glass,  —  two  tumblers,  and  a 
custard-c\ip  without  a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as  well  as 
golden  goblets  would  have  done ;  and  Bob  served  it  out  with 


174        PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

beaming  looks,  while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sputtered  and 
crackled  noisily.     Then  Bob  proposed  :  — 

"  A  merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.      God  bless  us !  " 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 

"  God  bless  us  every  one  !  "  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of  all. 


THE   LITTLE   BOY   THAT   DIED. —J.  D.  Robinson. 

I  AM  all  alone  in  my  chamber  now, 
And  the  midnight  hour  is  near, 
And  the  fagot's  crack  and  the  clock's  dull  tick 

Are  the  only  sounds  I  hear ; 
And  over  my  soul,  in  its  solitude, 
Sweet  feelings  of  sadness  glide  ; 
For  my  heart  and  my  eyes  are  full,  when  I  think 
Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  went  one  night  to  my  father's  house,  — 

Went  home  to  the  dear  ones  all. 
And  softly  I  opened  the  garden  gate. 

And  softly  the  door  of  the  hall ; 
My  mother  came  out  to  meet  her  son, 

She  kissed  me,  and  then  she  sighed. 
And  her  head  fell  on  my  neck,  and  she  wept 

For  the  little  boy  that  died. 

And  when  I  gazed  on  his  innocent  face, 

As  still  and  cold  he  lay. 
And  thought  what  a  lovely  child  he  had  been, 

And  how  soon  he  must  decay, 
"  0  death,  thou  lovest  the  beautiful,"  /- 

In  the  woe  of  my  spirit  I  cried ; 
For  sparkled  the  eyes,  and  the  forehead  was  fair. 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died  ! 


THE   LITTLE   BOY   THAT   DIED.  175 

Again  I  will  go  to  my  father's  house, 

Go  home  to  the  dear  ones  all, 
And  sadly  I  '11  open  the  garden  gate, 

And  sadly  the  door  of  the  hall ; 
I  shall  meet  my  mother,  but  nevermore 

With  her  darling  by  her  side, 
But  she  '11  kiss  me  and  sigh  and  weep  again 

For  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  shall  miss  him  when  the  flowers  come 

In  the  garden  where  he  played  ; 
I  shall  miss  him  more  by  the  fireside, 

When  the  flowers  have  all  decayed ; 
I  shall  see  his  toys  and  his  empty  chair, 

And  the  horse  he  used  to  ride ; 
And  they  will  speak,  with  a  silent  speech, 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  shall  see  his  little  sister  again 

With  her  playmates  about  the  door. 
And  I  '11  watch  the  children  in  their  sports, 

As  I  never  did  before  ; 
And  if  in  the  group  I  see  a  child 

That 's  dimpled  and  laughing-eyed, 
I  '11  look  to  see  if  it  may  not  be 

The  little  boy  that  died. 

We  shall  all  go  home  to  our  Father's  house,  — 

To  our  Father's  house  in  the  skies, 
Where  the  hope  of  our  souls  shall  have  no  blight, 

And  our  love  no  broken  ties  ; 
We  shall  roam  on  the  banks  of  the  River  of  Peace, 

And  bathe  in  its  blissful  tide  : 
And  one  of  the  joys  of  our  heaven  shall  be 

The  little  boy  that  died ! 


176         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


KING  CANUTE  AND   HIS  NOBLES.— Dr.  Wolcott. 

CANUTE  was  by  his  nobles  taught  to  fancy 
That,  by  a  kind  of  royal  necromancy, 
He  had  the  power  Old  Ocean  to  control. 
Down  rushed  the  royal  Dane  upon  the  strand, 

And  issued,  like  a  Solomon,  command,  —  poor  soul ! 

"  Go  back,  ye  waves,  you  blustering  rogues,"  quoth  he ; 
"  Touch  not  your  lord  and  master,  Sea ; 

For  by  my  power  almighty,  if  you  do  —  " 
Then,  staring  vengeance,  out  he  held  a  stick, 
Vowing  to  drive  Old  Ocean  to  Old  Nick, 

Should  he  even  wet  the  latchet  of  his  shoe. 

The  sea  retired,  — the  monarch  fierce  rushed  on, 
And  looked  as  if  he  'd  drive  him  from  the  land ; 

But  Sea,  not  caring  to  be  put  upon, 
Made  for  a  moment  a  bold  stand. 

Not  only  made  a  stand  did  Mr.  Ocean, 
But  to  his  waves  he  made  a  motion. 

And  bid  them  give  the  king  a  hearty  trimming.     ' 
The  order  seemed  a  deal  the  waves  to  tickle, 
For  soon  they  put  his  Majesty  in  pickle. 

And  set  his  royalties,  like  geese,  a  swimming. 

All  hands  aloft,  with  one  tremendous  roar, 
Sound  did  they  make  him  wish  himself  on  shore  ; 

His  head  and  ears  most  handsomely  they  doused,  — 
Just  like  a  porpoise,  with  one  general  shout. 
The  waves  so  tumbled  the  poor  king  about,  — 

No  anabaptist  e'er  was  half  so  soused. 

At -length  to  land  he  crawled,  a  half-drowned  thing. 
Indeed  more  like  a  crab  than  like  a  king, 

And  found  his  courtiers  making  rueful  faces ; 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES.  177 

But  what  said  Canute  to  the  lords  and  gentry, 
Who  hailed  him  from  the  water,  on  his  entry, 
All  trembling  for  their  lives  or  places  1 

"  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  by  your  advice, 

I  've  had  with  Mr.  Sea  a  pretty  bustle  ; 
My  treatment  from  my  foe,  not  over  nice. 

Just  made  a  jest  for  every  shrimp  and  mussel. 

"  A  pretty  trick  for  one  of  my  dominion  !  — 
My  lords,  I  thank  you  for  your  great  opinion. 
You  '11  tell  me,  p'r'aps,  I  've  only  lost  one  game, 

And  bid  me  try  another,  —  for  the  rubber ; 
Permit  me  to  inform  you  all,  with  shame. 

That  you  're  a  set  of  knaves  and  I  'm  a  lubber." 


HANNAH  BINDING   SHOES.  — Lucy  Laecom. 

POOR  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 
Faded,  wrinkled. 
Sitting  stitching  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree ; 
Spring  and  winter 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse. 

To  her  whisper, 
"  Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news'?" 
0,  her  heart 's  adrift  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 
Night  and  morning 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

8*  L 


178  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

Fair  youttg  Hannah 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos  j 

Hale  and  clever, 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so  1 
For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 

May  is  passing ; 
Mid  the  apple-boughs  a  pigeon  coos. 

Hannah  shudders, 
For  the  mild  southwester  mischief  brews. 
Eound  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped ; 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

'T  is  November ; 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland, 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "  Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heai'd  of  Ben  ] " 
Old  with  watching, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views; 

Twenty  seasons,  — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea ; 
Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 


THE  EEGIMENPS  RETURN.  179  ' 

THE  REGIMENT'S   RETURN.  —  E.  J.  Cutler. 


HE  is  comicg,  he  is  coming,  my  true  love  comes  home 
to-day ! 
All  the  city  throngs  to  meet  him,  as  he  lingers  by  the  way. 
He  is  coming  from  the  battle  \s-ith  his  knapsack  and  his  gnn,  — 
He,  a  hundred  times  my  darling,  for  the  dangers  he  hath  run  ! 

Twice  they  said  that  he  was  dead,  but  I  would  not  believe  the 

lie; 
While  my  faithful  heart  kept  loving  him,  I  knew  he  could  not 

die. 
All  in  white  will  I  array  me,  with  a  rose-bud  in  my  hair. 
And  his  ring  upon  my  finger,  —  he  shall  see  it  shining  there  ! 
He  will  kiss  me,  he  will  kiss  me,  with  the  kiss  of  long  ago  ; 
He  will  fold  his  arms  around  me  close,  and   I   shall  cry,   I 

know. 

0  the  years  that  I  have  waited,  rather  lives  they  seemed  to  be, 
For  the  dawning  of  the  happy  day  that  brings  him  back  to  me  ! 
But  the  worthy  cause  has  triumphed,  0  joy  !  the  war  is  over  I 
He  is  coming,  he  is  coming,  my  gallant  soldier  lover  ! 

II. 

Men  are  shouting  all  around  me,  women  weep  and  laugh  for 

joy. 

Wives  behold  again  their  husbands,  and  the  mother  clasps 

her  boy  ; 
All  the  city  throbs  with  passion  ;  't  is  a  day  of  jubilee  : 
But  the  happiness  of  thousands  brings  not  happiness  to  me. 

1  remember,  I  remember,  when  the  soldiers  went  away, 
There  was  one  among  the  noblest  who  is  not  returned  to-day. 
O,  I  loved  him,  how  I  loved  him  I  and  I  never  can  forget 
That  he  kissed  me  as  we  parted,  for  the  kiss  is  burning  yet  ! 


180         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

'T  is  his  picture  in  my  bosom,  where  his  head  will  never  lie ; 

'T  is  his  ring  iipou  my  finger,  —  I  will  wear  it  till  I  die. 

0,  his  comrades  say  that,  dying,  he  looked  up  and  breathed 

my  name  ; 
They  have  come  to  those  that  loved  them,  but  my  darling 

never  came. 
0,  they  say  he  died  a  hero,  — but  I  knew  how  that  would  be, 
And  they  say  the  cause  has  triumphed  —     Will  that  bring  him 

back  to  me  ] 


ENLISTING  AS  ARMY  NURSE.  —  Louisa  M.  Alcott. 


I 


WANT  something  to  do."  —  This  remark  being  ad- 
dressed to  the  world  in  general,  no  one  in  particular 
felt  it  his  duty  to  reply ;  so  I  repeated  it  to  the  smaller  world 
about  me,  received  the  following  suggestions,  and  settled  the 
matter  by  answering  my  own  inquiry,  as  people  are  apt  to  do 
when  very  much  in  earnest. 

"Write  a  book,"  quoth  my  father. 

"  Don't  know  enough,  sir.     First  live,  then  write." 

"Try  teaching  again,"  suggested  my  mothet. 

"  No,  thank  3'ou,  ma'am ;  ten  years  of  that  is  enough." 

"  Take  a  husband  like  my  Darby,  and  fulfil  your  mission," 
said  Sister  Jane,  home  on  a  visit. 

"  Can't  afford  expensive  luxuries,  Mrs.  Coobiddy." 

"  Turn  actress,  and  immortalize  your  name,"  said  Sister 
Vashti,  striking  an  attitude. 

"  I  won't." 

"  Go  nurse  the  soldiers,"  said  my  young  neighbor,  Tom, 
panting  for  "the  tented  field." 

"  I  will !  " 

Airiving  at  this  satisfactory  conclusion,  the  meeting  ad- 
journed ;  and  the  fact  that  Miss  Tribulation  was  available  as 
army  nurse  went  abroad  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

In  a  few  days  a  townswoman  heard  of  my  desire,  approved 
of  it,  and  brought  about  an  interview  with  one  of  the  sister- 


ENLISTING   AS   ARMY   NURSE.  181 

hood  I  wished  to  join,  who  was  at  home  on  a  fiu'lough,  and 
able  and  wiUing  to  satisfy  inquiries. 

A  mornino;  chat  with  Miss  General  S.  —  we  hear  no  end  of 
Mrs.  Generals,  wliy  not  a  Miss  1  —  produced  three  results  :  I 
felt  that  I  could  do  the  work,  wns  offered  a  place,  and  ac- 
cepted it,  promising  not  to  desert,  but  to  stand  ready  to 
march  on  Washington  at  an  hour's  notice. 

A  few  days  were  necessary  for  the  letter  containing  my 
request  and  recommendation  to  reach  head-quarters,  and 
another,  containing  my  commission,  to  return ;  therefore  no 
time  was  to  be  lost ;  and,  heartily  thanking  my  pair  of 
friends,  I  hui'ried  home  through  the  December  slush,  as  if 
the  Rebels  were  after  me,  and,  like  many  another  recruit, 
burst  in  upon  my  family  with  the  announcement^  —  "I  've 
enlisted  ! " 

An  impressive  silence  followed.  Tom,  the  iiTepressible, 
broke  it  wnth  a  slap  on  the  shoulder  and  the  gi-ateful  compli- 
ment, —  "  Old  Trib,  you  're  a  trump  !  " 

"  Thank  you ;  then  I  'U  take  something,"  —  which  I  did, 
in  the  shape  of  dinner,  reeling  off"  my  news  at  the  rate  of 
three  dozen  words  to  a  mouthful  ;  and  as  every  one  else 
talked  equally  fast,  and  all  together,  the  scene  was  most  in- 
spiring. 

As  boys  going  to  sea  immediately  become  nautical  in 
speech,  walk  as  if  they  already  had  their  sea-legs  on,  and 
shiver  their  timbers  on  all  possible  occasions,  so  I  turned 
military  at  once,  called  my  ffinner  my  rations,  saluted  all 
new-comers,  and  ordered  a  dress-parade  that  very  afternoon. 

Having  reviewed  every  rag  I  possessed,  I  detailed  some 
pieces  for  picket  duty  while  airing  on  the  fence  ;  some  to  the 
sanitary  influences  of  the  wash-tub ;  others  to  mount  guard 
in  the  trunk ;  while  the  weak  and  wounded  went  to  the 
AVork-basket  Hospital,  to  be  made  ready  for  active  service 
again. 

To  this  squad  I  devoted  myself  for  a  week ;  but  all  was 
done,  and  I  had  time  to  get  powerfully  impatient  before  the 
letter  came.     It  did  arrive,  however,  and   brought  a  disap- 


182         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

polntment  along  -with  its  good-will  and  friendliness ;  for  it 
told  me  that  the  place  in  the  Armory  Hospital  that  I  sup- 
posed I  was  to  take  was  already  filled,  and  a  much  less 
desirable  one  at  Hurly-burly  House  was  offered  instead. 

"  That 's  just  your  luck,  Trib.  I  '11  take  your  trunk  up 
gan'et  for  you  again ;  for  of  course  you  won't  go,"  Tom 
remarked,  with  the  disdainful  pity  which  small  boys  affect 
when  they  get  into  their  teens. 

I  was  wavering  in  my  secret  soul ;  but  that  remark  settled 
the  matter,  and  I  crushed  him  on  the  spot  with  martial  brev- 
ity, —  "  It  is  now  one  ;  I  shall  march  at  six." 

I  have  a  confused  recollection  of  spending  the  afternoon  in 
pervading  the  house  like  an  executive  whirlwind,  with  my 
family  swarming  after  me,  —  all  working,  talking,  prophesy- 
ing, and  lamenting,  while  I  packed  such  of  my  things  as  I 
was  to  take  with  me,  tumbled  the  rest  into  two  big  boxes, 
danced  on  the  lids  till  they  shut,  and  gave  them  in  charge, 
with  the  direction,  —  "If  I  never  come  back,  make  a  bonfire 
of  them." 

Then  I  choked  down  a  cup  of  tea,  generously  salted  instead 
of  sugared  by  some  agitated  relative,  shouldered  my  knap- 
sack, —  it  was  only  a  travelling-bag,  but  do  let  me  preserve 
the  unities,  —  hugged  my  family  three  times  all  round  with- 
out a  vestige  of  unmanly  emotion,  till  a  certain  dear  old  lady 
broke  down  upon  ray  neck,  with  a  despairing  sort  of  wail,  — 
"  0  my  dear,  my  dear  !  how  can  I  let  you  go  1 " 

"  I  '11  stay,  if  you  say  so,  mother." 

"  But  I  don't ;  go,  and  the  Lord  will  take  care  of  you." 

Much  of  the  Roman  matron's  courage  had  gone  into  the 
Yankee  matron's  composition,  and,  in  spite  of  her  tears,  she 
would  have  sent  ten  sons  to  the  war,  had  she  possessed  them, 
as  freely  as  she  sent  one  daughter,  smiling  and  flapping  on 
the  door-step  till  I  vanished,  though  the  eyes  that  followed 
me  were  very  dim,  and  the  handkerchief  she  waved  was  very 
wet. 

My  transit  from  The  Gables  to  the  village  depot  was  a 
funny  mixture  of  good  wishes  and  good-bys,  mud-puddles  and 


MOTHER   AND   POET.  183 

shopping.  A  December  twilight,  is  not  the  most  cheering 
time  to  enter  upon  a  somewhat  perilous  enterprise ;  but  I  'd 
no  thought  of  giving  out,  0  bless  you,  no ! 

When  the  enorine  screeched  "  Here  we  are  ! "  I  clutched 
my  escort  in  a  fervent  embrace,  and  skipped  into  the  car  with 
as  blithe  a  farewell  as  if  going  on  a  bridal  tour, — though  I 
believe  brides  don't  usually  wear  cavernous  black  bonnets  and 
fuzzy  brown  coats,  with  a  hair-brush,  a  pair  of  rubbers,  two 
books,  and  a  bag  of  gingerbread  distorting  the  pockets. 

If  I  thought  that  people  would  believe  it,  I  'd  boldly  state 
that  I  slept  from  C.  to  B.,  which  w^ould  simplify  matters  im- 
mensely ;  but  as  I  know  they  would  n't,  I  '11  confess  that  the 
head  under  the  funereal  coal-hod  fermented  with  all  manner 
of  high  thoughts  and  heroic  purposes  "to  do  or  die,"  —  per- 
haps both  ;  and  the  heart  under  the  fuzzy  brown  coat  felt 
very  tender  with  the  memory  of  the  dear  old  lady,  probably 
sobbing  over  her  army  socks  and  the  loss  of  her  topsy-turvy 
Trib. 

At  this  juncture  I  took  the  veil,  and  what  I  did  behind  it 
is  nobody's  business ;  but  I  maintain  that  the  soldier  who 
cries  when  his  mother  says  "  Good  by  "  is  the  boy  to  fight 
best,  and  die  bravest,  when  the  time  comes,  or  go  back  to  her 
better  than  he  went. 


MOTHER  AND   POET. —  Mrs.  Browning. 

DEAD  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !  when  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year. 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said  ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 

The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
Forever,  instead  ! 


184  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

What  's  art  for  a  woman  1     To  hold  on  her  knees 

Both  darlings  !  to  feel  all  then*  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little  !  to  sew  by  degrees, 

And  'broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 

To  teach  them  —     It  stings  there  !     /  made  them,  indeed. 
Speak  plain  the  word  "  country,"  — /taught  them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country  's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
/  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed  !   0  my  beautiful  eyes  ! 

/  exulted  !     Nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  surprise 

When  one  sits  quite  alone  !  Then  one  weeps,  then  one  kneels  ! 
—  God  !  how  the  house  feels  ! 

At  first  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses,  of  camp  life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me,  and  soon,  coming  home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin  :  "  Ancona  was  free  ! " 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  !  —  I  fell  down  at  his  feet 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it !  friends  soothed  me ;  my  grief  looked  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on,  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand  ;  "I  was  not  to  faint. 


MOTHER   AND   POET.  185 

One  loved  me  for  two  ;  would  be  with  me  erelong ! 
And  '  Viva  1"  Italia  ! '  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add  he  "  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  pi-eseuce  that  turned  off  the  balls,  was  imprest 

It  was  Guido  himself  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph  line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta  : 
"  Shot.     Tell  his  mother."    Ah  !  ah  !  "  his,"  "  their  "  mother ; 
not  "  mite." 
No  voice  says  "  my  mother  "  again  to  me.     "What  ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ] 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe  1 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 

Through  That  Love  and  that  Sorrow  which  reconcile  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

0  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother  I  consider,  I  pray. 

How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate  ;  mark, 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

Both  boys  dead  !  but  that  's  out  of  nature.     We  all 

Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one ; 

'T  were  imbecile  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall. 

And,  when  Italy  's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done, 
If  we  have  not  a  son  1 

Ah  1  ah  !  ah  !  when  Gaeta 's  taken,  what  then  1 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 


186  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOE   READINGS. 

Of  the  fire-balls  of  death,  crashing  souls  out  of  men  1 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli,  with  final  retort, 
Have  cut  the  game  short  1 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country,  from  mountain  to  sea. 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(And  /  have  my  dead)  — 

What  then  1     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your  bells  low 
And  bum  your  lights  faintly  !     My  country  is  there, 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow ; 
My  Italy  's  there,  —  with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair ! 

Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Both  !  both  my  boys  !     If  in  keeping  the  feast, 
You  want  a  great  song  for  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at  me. 


FETCHING  WATER  FROM  THE   WELL. 

EARLY  on  a  sunny  morning,  while  the  lark  was  singing 
sweet. 
Came,  beyond  the  ancient  farm-house,  sounds  of  lightly  trip- 
ping feet. 
'T  was  a  lowly  cottage  maiden  going,  —  why,  let  young  hearts 

tell,  — 
With  her  homely  pitcher  laden,  fetching  water  from  the  well. 

Shadows   lay   athwart   the    pathway,    all    along    the    quiet 

lane, 
And  the  breezes  of  the  morning  moved  them  to  and  fro 


FETCHING   WATER   FROM   THE   WELL.  187 

O'er  the  sunshine,  o'er  the  shadow,  passed  the  maiden  of  the 

farm, 
With  a  charmed  heart  within  her,  thinking  of  no  ill  nor  harm. 

Pleasant,  surely,  were  her  musings,  for  the  nodding  leaves 

in  vain 
Sought  to    press   their  brightening   image  on  her  ever-busy 

brain. 
Leaves  and  joyous  birds  went  by  her,  like  a  dim,  half-waking 

dream ; 
And  her  soul  was  only  conscious  of  life's  gladdest  summer 

gleam. 

At  the  old  lane's  shady  turning  lay  a  well  of  water  bright. 
Singing  soft  its  hallelujah  to  the  gracious  morning  light. 
Fern-leaves,  broad  and  green,  bent  o'er  it  where  its  silvery 

droplets  fell. 
And  the  faii-ies  dwelt  beside  it,  in  the  spotted  foxglove  bell. 

Back  she  bent  the  shading  fern-leaves,  dipt  the   pitcher  in 

the  tide,  — 
Drew  it,  with  the  dripping  waters  flowing  o'er  its  glazed  side. 
But  before  her  arm  could  place  it  on  her  shiny,  wavy  hair, 
By  her  side  a  youth  was  standing  !  —  Love  rejoiced  to  see  the 

pair  ! 

Tones    of    tremulous    emotion    trailed    upon    the    morning 

breeze. 
Gentle  woi-ds  of  heart-devotion  whispered  'neath  the  ancient 

trees. 
But  the  holy,  blessed  secrets  it  becomes  me  not  to  tell ; 
Life  had  met  another  meaning,  fetching  water  from  the  well. 

Down  the  rural  lane  they  sauntered.  He  the  burden- 
pitcher  bore ; 

She,  with  dewy  eyes  do-mi  looking,  grew  more  beauteous  than 
before  ! 


188  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOE   READINGS. 

When  they  neared  the  silent  homestead,  up  he  raised   the 

pitcher  hght ; 
Like   a  fitting   crown   he  placed  it  on  her  hair  of  wavelets 

bright : 

Emblems  of  the  coming  burdens  that  for  love  of  him  she  'd 

bear, 
Calling  every  burden  blessed,  if  his  love  but  lighted  there. 
Then,  still  waving  benedictions,  further,  further  off  he  drew, 
While  his  shadow  seemed  a  glory  that  across  the  pathway 

grew. 

Now  about  her  household  duties  silently  the  maiden  went, 
And  an  evei'-radiant  halo  o'er  her  daily  life  was  blent. 
Little  knew  the  aged  matron,  as  her  feet  like  music  fell. 
What  abundant  treasure  found  she,  fetching  water  from  the 
weU! 


THE  PUMPKIN.— J.  G.  Whittier. 

ON  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  a  dark  Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine  laden ; 
And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres  of  gold ; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in  the  North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks  forth, 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit  shines. 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his  vines. 

Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East  and  from  West, 
From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim  and  guest, 
When  the  gray -haired  New-Englander  sees  round  his  board 
The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 
When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother  once  more. 
And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled  before, 
What  moistens  the  lip,  and  what  brightens  the  eye  1 
What  calls  back  the  past  like  l^he  rich  pumpkin-pie  1 


CIVIL   WAR.  189 

0,  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  !  —  the  old  days  recalling, 

When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts  were  falling  ! 

"When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin. 

Glaring  out  througli  the  dark  with  a  candle  within  ! 

"When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  heai'ts  all   in 

tune. 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  our  lantern  the  moon, 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like  steam 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her  team ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present !  —  none  sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fau'er  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than  thine  ! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less, 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin-vine  grow, 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  pumpkin-pie  ! 


CIVIL   "WAR.  —  Charles  D.  Shanley. 

RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 
Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette  ; 
Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet !  " 

"  Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead ; 

There  's  music  around  when  my  barrel 's  in  tune  !  " 
Crack  !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"  Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first  blood ; 


190         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud ! " 

"  0  captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette, 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket,  —  this  locket  of  gold ; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  gi'aziug  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"  Ha  !  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket  ?  —  't  is  she, 
My  brother's  young  bride,  —  and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband  —   Hush  !  soldier,  't  was  Heaven's  decree ; 
We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the  moon ! 

"  But,  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite ; 

War  is  a  virtue,  —  weakness,  a  sin  ; 
There  's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night ; 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  ! " 


PATIENT  JOE. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  a  collier,  of  honest  i-enown. 
Who  dwelt  on  the  borders  of  Newcastle  Town? 
His  name  it  was  Joseph,  —  you  better  ma}'  know 
If  I  tell  you  he  always  was  called  Patient  Joe. 

Whatever  betided,  he  thought  it  was  right, 

And  Providence  still  he  kept  ever  in  sight ; 

To  those  who  love  God,  let  things  txirn  as  they  would. 

He  was  certain  that  all  worked  together  for  good. 


PATIENT   JOE.  191 

He  praised  his  Creator,  whatever  befell ! 
How  thankful  was  Joseph  when  matters  went  well ! 
How  sincere  were  his  carols  of  praise  for  good  health, 
And  how  grateful  for  any  increase  in  his  wealth  ! 

In  trouble  he  bowed  him  to  God's  holy  will ; 
How  contented  was  Joseph  when  matters  went  ill  ! 
When  rich  and  when  poor,  he  alike  understood 
That  all  things  together  were  working  for  good. 

If  the  land  was  afflicted  with  war,  he  declared 
'T  was  a  needful  correction  for  sins,  which  he  shared  ; 
And  when  merciful  Heaven  bid  slaughter  to  cease, 
How  thankful  was  Joe  for  the  blessings  of  peace  ! 

When  taxes  ran  high  and  provisions  were  dear, 
Still  Joseph  declared  he  had  nothing  to  fear ; 
It  was  but  a  trial,  he  well  understood, 
From  Him  who  made  all  work  together  for  good. 

Though  his  wife  was  but  sickly,  his  gettings  but  small, 
A  mind  so  submissive  prepared  him  for  all ; 
He  lived  on  his  gains,  were  they  greater  or  less. 
And  the  (river  he  ceased  not  each  moment  to  bless. 

It  was  Joseph's  ill  fortune  to  work  in  a  pit 
With  some  who  believed  that  profaneness  was  wit ; 
When  disasters  befell  him,  much  pleasure  they  showed. 
And  laughed  and  said,  "Joseph,  will  this  work  for  good  1 " 

But  ever  when  these  would  profanely  advance 

That  this  happened  by  luck,  and  that  happened  by  chance, 

Still  Joseph  insisted  no  chance  could  be  found, 

Not  a  spaiTow  by  accident  falls  to  the  ground. 

Among  his  companions  who  worked  in  the  pit, 
And  made  him  the  butt  of  their  profligate  wit, 


192  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Was  idle  Tim  Jenkins,  who  drank  and  who  gamed, 
Who  mocked  at  his  Bible  and  was  not  ashamed. 

One  day  at  the  pit  his  old  comrades  he  found, 

And  they  chatted,  preparing  to  go  under  ground  ; 

Tim  Jenkins,  as  usual,  was  turning  to  jest 

Joe's  notion  —  that  all  things  which  happened  were  best. 

As  Joe  on  the  ground  had  unthinkingly  laid 

His  provision  for  dinner  of  bacon  and  bread, 

A  dog,  on  the  watch,  seized  the  bread  and  the  meat, 

And  off  with  his  prey  ran  with  footsteps  so  fleet. 

Now  to  see  the  delight  that  Tim  Jenkins  expressed  ! 
"  Is  the  loss  of  thy  dinner  too,  Joe,  for  the  best  1 "  ^ 
"  No  doubt  on  't,"  said  Joe,  "  but  as  I  must  eat, 
'T  is  my  duty  to  try  to  recover  my  meat." 

So  saying,  he  followed  the  dog  a  long  round, 

While  Tim,  laughing  and  swearing,  went  down  under  gi'Dund. 

Poor  Joe  soon  returned,  though  his  bacon  was  lost. 

For  the  dog  a  good  dinner  had  miade  at  his  cost. 

When  Joseph  came  back,  he  expected  a  sneer ; 
But  the  face  of  each  collier  spoke  horror  and  fear. 
"  What  a  narrow  escape  hast  thou  had  !  "  they  all  said  ; 
"  The  pit  has  fallen  in,  and  Tim  Jenkins  is  dead." 

How  sincere  was  the  gratitude  Joseph  expressed  ! 
How  warm  the  compassion  which  glowed  in  his  breast  ! 
Thus  events,  great  and  small,  if  aright  understood, 
Will  be  found  to  be  working  together  for  good. 

"  When  my  meat,"  Joseph  cried,  "  was  just  now  stolen  away, 

And  I  had  no  prospect  of  eating  to-day, 

How  could  it  appear  to  a  short-sighted  siimer 

That  my  life  would  be  saved  by  the  loss  of  my  dinner ! " 


o 


THE   CANAL-BOAT.  193 


THE   CANAL-BOAT.  —  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

F  all  the  ways  of  travelling  which  obtain  among  our 
locomotive  nation,  this  said  vehicle,  the  canal-boat,  is 
the  most  absolutely  prosaic  and  inglorious.  There  is  some- 
thing picturesque,  nay,  almost  sublime,  in  the  lordly  march 
of  your  well-built,  high-bred  steamboat.  Go,  take  your  stand 
on  some  overhanging  bluff,  where  the  Ohio  winds  its  thread 
of  silver,  or  the  sturdy  Mississippi  tears  its  path  through  un- 
broken forests,  and  it  will  do  your  heart  good  to  see  the  gal- 
lant boat  walking  the  waters  with  powerful  tread ;  and,  like 
some  fabled  monster  of  the  wave,  breathing  fire,  and  making 
the  shores  resound  with  its  deep  respirations.  Then  there  is 
something  mysterious,  even  awful,  in  the  power  of  steam. 
But  in  a  canal-boat  there  is  no  power,  no  mystery,  no  dan- 
ger ;  one  cannot  blow  up,  one  cannot  be  drowned,  unless  by 
some  special  eflfort.  One  sees  all  there  is  in  the  case,  — 
a  horse,  a  rope,  and  a  muddy  strip  of  water,  —  and  that  is 
all. 

Did  you  ever  try  it  1  If  not,  take  an  imaginary  trip  with 
us,  just  for  experiment. 

"  There  's  the  boat !  "  exclaims  a  passenger  in  the  omnibus, 
as  we  are  rolling  down  from  the  Pittsburg  Mansion  House  to 
the  canal. 

"  Where  ? "  exclaim  a  dozen  voices,  and  forthwith  a  dozen 
heads  go  out  of  the  window. 

"  Why,  down  there,  under  that  bridge  ;  don't  you  see  those 
lights  r' 

"What,  that  little  thing!"  exclaims  an  inexperienced 
traveller ;  "  dear  me  !  we  can't  half  of  us  get  into  it !  " 

"  We  !  indeed,"  says  some  old  hand  in  the  business, 
"  I  think  you  '11  find  it  will  hold  us  and  a  dozen  loads  like 
us." 

"  Impossible  ! "  say  some. 

"  You  '11  see,"  say  the  initiated  ;  and,  as  soon  as  you  get 
out,  you  do  see,   and  hear  too,  what  seems  like  a  general 

9  M 


194  PUBLIC   xVND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

breaking  loose  from  the  Tower  of  Babel,  amid  a  perfect 
hailstorm  of  trunks,  boxes,  valises,  carpet-bags,  and  every  de- 
Bcribable  and  indescribable  form  of  what  a  Westerner  calls 
"plunder." 

"  That 's  my  trunk  !  "  barks  out  a  big  round  man. 

"  That 's  my  bandbox  !  "  screams  a  heart-stricken  old  lady, 
in  terror  for  her  immaculate  Sunday  caps. 

"  Where  's  my  little  red  box  1  I  had  two  carpet-bags  and 
a  —  My  trunk  had  a  scarle  —  Halloo  !  where  are  you  going 
with  that  portmanteau  1  —  Husband  !  husband  !  do  see  after 
the  large  basket  and  the  little  hair  trunk  —  0,  and  the 
baby's  little  chair  !  " 

"  Go  below,  for  mercy's  sake,  my  dear !  I  '11  see  to  the 
baggage."  f       ^  _ 

At  last,  the  feminine  part  of  creation,  perceiving  that,  in 
this  particular  instance,  they  gain  nothing  by  public  speak- 
ing, are  content  to  be  led  quietly  under  the  hatches ;  and 
amusing  is  the  look  of  dismay  which  each  new-comer  gives  to 
the  confined  quarters  that  present  themselves.  Those  who 
were  so  ignorant  of  the  power  of  compi'ession  as  to  suppose 
the  boat  scarce  large  enough  to  contain  them  and  theirs  find, 
with  dismay,  a  respectable  colony  of  old  ladies,  babies,  moth- 
ers, big  baskets,  and  carpet-bags  already  established. 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  "  says  one,  after  surveying  the  little  room, 
about  ten  feet  long  and  six  high,  "  where  are  we  all  to  sleep 
to-night  ] " 

"  0  me  !  what  a  sight  of  children  ! "  says  a  young  lady  in 
a  despairing  tone. 

"  Poh  !  "  says  an  initiated  traveller ;  "  children  !  scarce  any 
here.  Let 's  see  :  one  ;  the  woman  in  the  corner,  two ;  that 
child  with  the  bread-and-butter,  three  ;  and  then  there  's 
that  other  woman  w^ith  two.  Really  it  's  quite  moderate 
for  a  canal-boat.  However,  we  can't  tell  till  they  have  all 
come." 

"  All !  for  mercy's  sake,  you  don't  say  there  are  any  more 
coming  ! "  exclaim  two  or  thi'ee  in  a  breath  ;  "  they  can't 
come  ;  there  is  not  room  !  " 


THE   CANAL-BOAT.  195 

Notwithstanding  the  impressive  utterance  of  this  sentence, 
the  contrary  is  immediately  demonstrated  by  the  appearance 
of  a  very  corpulent  elderly  lady,  with  three  well-grown 
daughtei-s,  who  come  down  looking  about  them  most  compla- 
cently, entirely  regardless  of  the  unchristian  looks  of  the 
company.  What  a  mercy  it  is  that  fat  people  are  always 
good-natiu'ed ! 

After  this  follows  an  indiscriminate  raining  down  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  sexes,  and  ages,  —  men,  women,  children,  ba- 
bies, and  nurses.  The  state  of  feeling  becomes  perfectly  des- 
perate.    Darkness  g-athers  on  all  faces. 

"  We  shall  be  smothered  !  we  shall  be  crowded  to  death  ! 
■we  can't  stay  here  !  "  are  heard  faintly  from  one  and  another ; 
and  yet,  though  the  boat  grows  no  wjder,  the  walls  no  higher, 
they  do  live,  and  do  stay  there,  in  spite  of  repeated  protesta- 
tions to  the  contrary.  Truly,  as  Sam  Slick  says,  "  there  's  a 
sight  of  wear  in  human  natur'." 

But,  meanwhile,  the  children  grow  sleepy,  and  divers  inter- 
esting little  duets  and  trios  arise  from  one  part  or  another  of 
the  cabin. 

"  Hush,  Johnny  !  be  a  good  boy,"  says  a  pale,  nursing 
mamma  to  a  great,  bristling,  white-headed  phenomenon,  who 
is  kicking  very  much  at  large  in  her  lap. 

"  I  won't  be  a  good  boy,  neither,"  responds  Johnny,  with 
interesting  explicitness  ;  "  I  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  so-o-o-o  !  " 
and  Johnny  makes  up  a  mouth  as  big  as  a  teacup,  and  roars 
with  good  courage,  and  his  mamma  asks  him  "  if  he  ever  saw 
pa  do  so,"  and  tells  him  that  "he  is  mamma's  dear,  good 
little  boy,  and  must  not  make  a  noise,"  with  various  observa- 
tions of  the  kind,  which  are  so  strikingly  efficacious  in  such 
cases.  Meanwhile,  the  domestic  concert  in  other  quarters 
proceeds  with  vigor. 

"  Mamma,  I  'm  tired  !  "  bawls  a  child. 

"  Whei-e  's  the  baby's  nightgown?"  calls  a  nurse. 

"Do  take  Peter  up  in  your  lap,  and  keep  him  still." 

"  Pray  get  some  biscuits  and  stop  their  mouths." 

Meanwhile  sundry  babies  strike  in    "  con  spirito,"  as  the 


196  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  PvEADINGS. 

music-books  have  it,  and  execute  various  flourishes ;  the  dis- 
consolate mothers  sigh,  and  look  as  if  all  was  over  with 
them  ;  and  the  young  ladies  ajDpear  extremely  disgusted,  and 
wonder  "  what  business  women  have  to  be  travelling  round 
with  babies." 

To  these  troubles  succeeds  the  tviming-oiit  scene,  when  the 
whole  caravan  is  ejected  into  the  gentlemen's  cabin,  that  the 
beds  may  be  made.  The  red  curtains  are  put  down,  and  in 
solemn  silence  all  the  last  mysterious  preparations  begin. 
At  length  it  is  announced  that  all  is  ready.  Forthwith  the 
whole  company  rush  back,  and  find  the  walls  embellished  by 
a  series  of  little  shelves,  about  a  foot  wide,  each  furnished 
with  a  mattress  and  bedding,  and  hooked  to  the  ceiling  by  a 
very  suspiciously  slender  cord.  Direful  are  the  ruminations 
and  exclamations  of  inexperienced  travellers,  particularly  young 
ones,  as  they  eye  these  very  eqiiivocal  accommodations. 

"What,  sleep  up  there  !  /  won't  sleep  on  one  of  those  top 
shelves,  /  know.     The  cords  will  certainly  break." 

The  chambermaid  here  takes  up  the  conversation,  and  sol- 
emnly assures  them  that  such  an  accident  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  at  all,  that  it  is  a  natural  impossibility,  —  a 
thing  that  could  not  happen  without  an  actual  miracle ;  and 
since  it  becomes  increasingly  evident  that  thirty  ladies  cannot 
all  sleep  on  the  lowest  shelf,  there  is  some  effort  made  to  ex- 
ercise faith  in  this  doctrine  ;  nevertheless,  all  look  on  their 
neighbors  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  when  the  stout  lady 
talks  of  taking  a  shelf,  she  is  most  urgently  pressed  to  change 
places  with  her  alarmed  neighbor  below.  Points  of  location 
being  after  a  while  adjusted,  comes  the  last  struggle.  Every- 
body wants  to  take  off  a  bonnet,  or  look  for  a  shawl,  to  find 
a  cloak  or  get  a  carpet-bag,  and  all  set  about  it  with  such  zeal 
that  nothing  can  be  done. 

"  Ma'am,  you  're  on  my  foot !  "  says  one. 

"  Will  you  please  to  move,  ma'am  1 "  says  somebody  who  is 
gasping  and  struggling  behind  you. 

"  Move  !  "  you  echo.  "  Indeed,  I  should  be  very  glad  to, 
but  I  don't  see  much  prospect  of  it." 


THE   CANAL-BOAT.  197 

"  Chambermaid  1  "  calls  a  lady,  -u'ho  is  struggling  among  a 
heap  of  carpet-bags  and  children  at  one  end  of  the  cabin. 

"  Ma'am  !  "  echoes  the  poor  chambennaid,  who  is  wedged 
fest,  in  a  similar  situation,  at  the  other. 

"  Where  's  my  cloak,  chambermaid  1 " 

"  I  'd  find  it,  ma'am,  if  I  could  move." 

"  Chambermaid,  my  basket  !  " 

*'  Chambermaid,  my  parasol  !  " 

"  Chambermaid,  my  carj^et-bag  !  " 

"  Mamma,  they  push  me  so  !  " 

"  Hush,  child  ;  crawl  under  there,  and  lie  still  till  I  can 
undress  you." 

At  last,  however,  the  various  distresses  are  over,  the  babies 
sink  to  sleep,  and  even  that  much-enduring  being,  the  cham- 
bermaid, seeks  out  some  corner  for  repose.  Tired  and 
drowsy,  you  are  just  sinking  into  a  doze,  when  bang  !  goes 
the  boat  against  the  sides  of  a  lock  ;  ropes  scrape,  men  run 
and  shout,  and  up  fly  the  heads  of  all  the  top  shelfites,  who 
are  generally  the  more  juvenile  and  aiiy  part  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"  "What 's  that !  what 's  that !  "  flies  from  mouth  to  mouth  ; 
and  forthwith  they  proceed  to  awaken  their  respective  rela- 
tions. "  Mother  !  Aunt  Hannah  !  do  wake  up ;  what  is  this 
awful  noise  'i " 

"  0,  only  a  lock  !  Pray  be  still !  "  groan  out  the  sleepy 
members  firom  below. 

"  A  lock  !  "  exclaim  the  vivacious  creatures,  ever  on  the 
alert  for  information  ;  "  and  what  is  a  lock,  pray  1 " 

"  Don't  you  know  what  a  lock  is,  you  silly  creatures  1  Do 
lie  down  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  say,  there  ain't  any  danger  in  a  lock,  is  there  1 "  re- 
spond the  querists. 

"  Danger  !  "  exclaims  a  deaf  old  lady,  poking  up  her  head. 
"What's  the  matter!  There  hain't  nothiu'  burst,  has 
there]" 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  exclaim  the  provoked  and  despairing  oppo- 
sition party,  who  find  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  going  to 


198-        PUBLIC  AXD  PARLOR  READINGS. 

sleep  till  they  have  made  the  old  lady  below  and  the  yonng 
ladies  above  understand  exactly  the  philosophy  of  the  lock. 
After  a  while  the  conversation  again  subsides;  again  all  is 
still ;  you  hear  only  the  trampling  of  horses  and  the  rippling 
of  the  rope  in  the  water,  and  sleep  again  is  stealing  over  you. 
You  doze,  you  dream,  and  all  of  a  sudden  you  are  started  by 
a  cry,  — 

"  Chambermaid !  wake  up  the  lady  that  wants  to  be  set 
ashore." 

Up  jumps  chambermaid,  and  iip  jump  the  lady  and  two 
children,  and  forthwith  form  a  committee  of  inquiry  as  to 
ways  and  means. 

"  Where  's  my  bonnet  1 "  says  the  lady,  half  awake,  and 
fumbling  among  the  various  articles  of  that  name.  "  I 
thought  I  hung  it  up  behind  the  door." 

"  Can't  you  find  it  1 "  says  poor  chambermaid,  yawning  and 
rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  0  yes,  here  it  is,"  says  the  lady ;  and  then  the  cloak,  the 
shawl,  the  gloves,  the  shoes,  receive  each  a  sepai'ate  discussion. 
At  last  all  seems  ready,  and  they  begin  to  move  off,  when,  lo  ! 
Peter's  cap  is  missing.  "Now,  where  can  it  be ? "  soliloqui- 
zes the  lady.  "  I  put  it  right  here  by  the  table  leg ;  maybe 
it  got  into  some  of  the  berths." 

At  this  suggestion  the  chambermaid  takes  the  caudle,  and 
goes  round  deliberately  to  every  berth,  poking  the  light 
directly  in  the  face  of  every  sleeper.  "  Here  it  is,"  she  ex- 
claims, pulling  at  something  black  under  one  pillow. 

"  No,  indeed,  those  are  my  shoes,"  says  the  vexed  sleeper. 

"  Maybe  it 's  here,"  she  resumes,  darting  upon  something 
dai'k  in  another  berth. 

"  No,  that 's  my  bag,"  responds  the  occupant. 

The  chambermaid  then  proceeds  to  turn  over  all  the  chil- 
dren on  the  floor,  to  see  if  it  is  not  under  them.  In  the 
course  of  which  process  they  are  most  agTceably  waked  up 
and  enlivened  ;  and  when  everybody  is  broad  awake,  and  most 
uncharitably  wishing  the  cap,  and  Peter  too,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  canal,  the  good  lady  exclaims,   "  Well,  if  this  is  n't 


THE   CANAL-BOAT.  199 

lucky  ;  here  I  had  it  safe  in  my  basket  all  the  time  !  "  And 
she  departs  amid  the  —  what  shall  I  say'? — execrations'?  — 
of  the  whole  company,  ladies  thoug-h  they  be. 

Well,  after  this  follows  a  hushing  up  and  wiping  up  among 
the  juvenile  population ;  and  a  series  of  remarks  commences 
from  the  various  shelves,  of  a  very  edifying  ixnd  instructive 
tendency.  One  saj's  that  the  woman  did  not  seem  to  know 
where  anything  was ;  another  says  that  she  has  waked  up  all 
the  children,  too ;  and  the  elderly  ladies  make  moral  reflec- 
tions on  the  importance  of  putting  things  where  you  can  find 
them,  — being  always  ready  ;  which  observations,  being  deliv- 
ered in  an  exceedingly  doleful  and  di'owsy  tone,  form  a  sort 
of  sub-bass  to  the  lively  chattering  of  the  upper  shelfites, 
who  declare  that  they  feel  quite  wide  awake,  —  that  they 
don't  think  they  shall  go  to  sleep  again  to-night,  —  and  dis- 
course over  everything  in  creation,  until  you  heartily  wish 
you  were  enough  related  to  them  to  give  them  a  scold- 
ing. 

At  last,  however,  voice  after  voice  drops  off ;  you  fall  into 
a  most  refreshing  slumber ;  it  seems  to  you  that  you  sleep 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  chambermaid  pulls  you 
by  the  sleeve  :  "  Will  you  please  to  get  vip,  ma'am  1  We 
want  to  make  the  beds." 

You  start  and  stare.  Sure  enough  the  night  is  gone.  So 
much  for  sleeping  on  boai'd  canal-boats. 

Let  us  not  enumerate  the  manifold  perplexities  of  the 
morning  toilet  in  a  place  where  every  lady  realizes  most  for- 
cibly the  condition  of  the  old  lady  who  lived  under  a  broom  : 
"  All  she  wanted  was  elbow  room."  Let  us  not  tell  how  one 
glass  is  made  to  answer  for  thirty  fair  faces,  one  ewer  and 
vase  for  thirty  lavations,  and  —  tell  it  not  in  Gath  !  —  one 
towel  for  a  company  !  Let  us  not  intimate  how  ladies'  shoes 
have,  in  a  night,  clandestinely  slid  into  the  gentlemen's  cabin, 
and  gentlemen's  boots  elbowed  —  or,  rather,  toed  —  their  way 
among  ladies'  gear,  nor  recite  the  exclamations  after  runaway 
property  that  are  heard.. 

"  I  can't  find  nothin'  of  Johnny's  shoe  !  " 


200         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  Here  's  a  shoe  in  the  water-pitcher,  —  is  this  it  1 " 

"  My  side-combs  are  gone  !  "  exclaims  a  nymph  with  di- 
shevelled curls. 

"  Massy  !  do  look  at  my  bonnet !  "  exclaims  an  old  lady, 
elevating  an  article  crushed  into  as  many  angles  as  there  are 
pieces  in  a  mince-pie. 

"  I  never  did  sleep  so  much  together  in  my  life,"  echoes  a 
poor  little  French  lady,  whom  despair  has  driven  into  talking 
English. 

But  we  must  not  prolong  our  catalogue  of  distresses  be- 
yond reasonable  bounds,  and  therefore  we  will  close  with 
advising  all  our  friends,  who  intend  to  try  this  way  of  travel- 
ling for  pleasure,  to  take  a  good  stock  both  of  patience  and 
clean  towels  with  them,  for  we  think  they  will  find  abundant 
need  for  both. 


THE  LOSS  OF   THE  HORNET. 

CALL  the  watch  !  call  the  watch ! 
"  Ho  !  the  starboard  watch  ahoy  !  "    Have  you  heard 
How  a  noble  ship  so  trim,  like  our  own,  my  hearties,  here, 

All  scudding  'fore  the  gale,  disappeared, 
Where  yon  southern  billows  roll  o'er  their  bed  so  green  and 
clear  1 
Hold  the  reel !  keep  her  full !  hold  the  reel ! 
How  she  flew  athwart  the  spray,  as,  shipmates,  we  do  now, 

Till  her  twice  a  hmidred  fearless  hearts  of  steel 
Felt  the  whirlwind  lift  its  waters  aft,  and  plunge  her  down- 
ward bow  ! 

Bear  a  hand  ! 

Strike  topgallants  !  mind  your  helm  !  jump  aloft  ! 
'T  was  such  a  night   as  this,  my  lads,  a  rakish  bark   was 
drowned. 
When  demons  foul,  that  whisper  seamen  oft, 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  HORNET.  201 

Scooped  a  tomb  amid  the  flashing  snrgo  that  never  shall  be 
found. 
Square  the  yards  !  a  double  reef !     Hark  the  blast ! 
0,  fiercely  has  it  fallen  on  the  war-ship  of  the  brave, 
"Wlien  its  tempest  furj-  stretched  the  stately  mast 
All  along  her  foamy  sides,  as  they  shouted  on  the  wave, 
"  Bear  a  hand  !  " 

Call  the  watch  !  call  the  watch  ! 
"  Ho  !  the  larboard  watch,  ahoy  !  "     Have  you  heard 
How  a  vessel,  gay  and  taut,  on  the  mountains  of  the  sea, 

Went  below,  with  all  her  warlike  crew  on  board, 
They  who  battled  for  the  happy,  boys,  and  perished  for  the 
free  ] 
Clew,  clew  up,  fore  and  aft  !  keep  away  ! 
How   the  vultiure   bird  of  death,  iu   its  black   and   viewless 
form. 
Hovered  sure  o'er  the  clamors  of  his  prey, 
While  through  aU  their  di-ipping  shrouds  yelled  the  spirit  of 
the  storm  ! 

Bear  a  hand  ! 

Now  out  reefs  !  brace  the  yards  !  lively  there  ! 
0,  no  more  to  homeward  bi*eeze   shall  her  swelling  bosom 
spread, 
But  love's  expectant  eye  bid  Despair 
Set  her  raven  watch  eternal  o'er  the  wreck  in  ocean's  bed. 

Board  your  tacks  !  cheerly,  boys  !     But  for  them, 
Their  last  evening  gun  is  fired,  their  gales  are  overblown  ; 

O'er  their  smoking  deck  no  starry  flag  shall  stream  ; 
They  '11  sail  no  more,  they  '11  fight  no  more,  for  their  gallant 
ship  's  gone  down. 

Bear  a  hand ! 


9* 


202         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


WOUNDED.  — J.  W.  Watson. 


s- 


TEADY,  boys,  steady! 
Keep  your  arms  ready, 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here.  - 
Don't  let  me  be  taken ; 
I  'd  rather  awaken, 
To-morrow,  in  —  no  matter  where. 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hole  —  over  there. 

Step  slowly ! 

Speak  lowly  ! 

These  rocks  may  have  life. 

Lay  me  down  in  this  hollow ; 
We  are  cut  of  the  strife. 
By  heavens  !  the  foemen  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 
No !  no  surgeon  for  me ;  he  can  give  me  no  aid  ; 
The  surgeon  I  want  is  pickaxe  and  spade. 
What,  Morris,  a  tear  1     Why,  shame  on  ye,  man  ! 
I  thought  you  a  hero  ;  but  since  you  began 
To  whimper  a  cry  like  a  girl  in  her  teens. 
By  George  !  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  it  means.! 

Well !  well  !  I  am  rough ;  't  is  a  very  rough  school, 
This  life  of  a  trooper,  —  but  yet  I  'm  no  fool ! 
T  know  a  brave  man,  and  a  friend  from  a  foe  ; 
And,  boys,  that  you  love  me  I  certainly  know ; 

But  was  n't  it  grand 
When  they  came  down  the  hill  over  sloughing  and  sand .' 
But  we  stood  —  did  we  not  1  —  like  immovable  rock, 
Unheeding  their  balls  and  repelling  their  shock. 

Did  you  mind  the  loud  cry 

AVhen,  as  turning  to  fly. 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them,  determined  to  die  1 

0,  was  n't  it  grand  ! 


WOUNDED.  203 

God  help  the  poor  -nTetches  that  fell  in  that  fight  j 
Ko  time  was  there  given  for  prayer  or  for  flight ; 
They  fell  by  the  score,  in  the  crash,  hand  to  hand, 
And  they  mingled  their  blood  with  the  sloughing  and  sand. 

Huzza  ! 
Great  Heavens  !  this  bullet-hole  gapes  like  a  grave  ; 
A  curse  on  the  aim  of  the  traitorous  knave  ! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  ye  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away  1 

Pray  ! 

Pray ! 

Our  Father  !  our  Father !  why  don't  ye  proceed  1 
Can't  you  see  I  am  dying  1  Great  God,  how  I  bleed ! 
Ebbing  away  ! 

Ebbing  away  ! 

The  light  of  the  day 
Is  turning  to  gray. 

Pray ! 

Pray ! 
Our  Father  in  Heaven  —  boys,  tell  me  the  rest. 
While  I  stanch  the  hot  blood  from  this  hole  in  my  breast. 
There  's  something  about  a  forgiveness  of  sin. 
Put  that  in  I  put  that  in  !  —  and  then 
I  '11  follow  your  words  and  say  an  amen. 

Here,  Morris,  old  fellow,  get  hold  of  my  hand ; 

And,  Wilson,  my  comrade  —  0,  was  n't  it  grand 

When  they  came  down  the  hill  like  a  thunder-charged 

cloxid ! 
Where  's  Wilson,  my  comrade  1  —  Here,  stoop  down  your 

head  ; 
Can't  you  say  a  short  prayer  for  the  dying  and  dead  1 

"  Christ  God,  who  died  for  sinners  all. 
Hear  thou  this  suppliant  wanderer's  cry ; 

Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sjiarrow  fall 
Unheedud  by  th}'  gracious  eye. 


204  PUBLIC   AND   TARLOR   READINGS. 

Throw  wide  thy  gates  to  let  him  in, 
And  take  him,  pleading,  to  thine  arms ; 

Forgive,  0  Lord  !  his  life-long  sin, 
And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms." 

God  bless  you,  my  comrade,  for  singing  that  hymn  ; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  when  my  eye  has  grown  dim. 
I  am  dying  —  bend  down  till  I  touch  you  once  more- 
Don't  forget  me,  old  fellow,  —  God  prosper  this  war  ! 
Confusion  to  enemies  !  —  keep  hold  of  my  hand  — 
And  float  our  dear  flag  o'er  a  prosperous  land  ! 


HOW   KAISER   WILHELM'S    SISTER   WAS   WON. 

THE  betrothal  and  marriage  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Prussia  with  Nicholas,  who  was  then  only  a  grand  duke, 
but  became  afterward  Emperor  of  Russia,  forms  one  of  the 
sweetest  and  most  romantic  love-episodes  in  the  world  of 
European  courts,  which  is  usually  so  devoid  of  love  and 
romance,  and  would,  on  that  account  alone,  deserve  being 
remembered,  quite  regardless  of  the  historical  interest  which 
will  henceforth  adhere  to  all  the  members  of  the  family  of 
the  conqueror  of  France. 

Princess  Charlotte  was  born  in  the  year  1 798,  and  was  the 
eldest  daughter  of  King  Frederick  William  the  Third  of 
Prussia,  and  liis  beautiful  and  accomplished  wife.  Queen 
Louisa.  Her  early  childhood  elapsed  amidst  scenes  of  terror 
and  humiliation  for  the  royal  family  of  Prussia,  and  nobody 
would  at  that  time  have  ventvu'ed  to  predict  for  her  the  bril- 
liant career  which  Providence  kept  in  store  for  this  child, 
born  and  brought  up  under  such  fatal  auspices.  We  might, 
indeed,  make  an  exception  in  favor  of  her  mother,  who,  with 
that  prophetic  intuition  which  seems  to  have  been  the  distin- 
guishing feature  of  that  high-miuded  woman,  wrote  one  day 
to  her  father,  the  Duke  of  Mecklenburg,  the  following  lines 
about  her  daughter  :  — • 


HOW   KAISER   WILHELM'S   SISTER  WAS   WON.  205 

"  Charlotte  is  given  to  silence  and  reserve,  but  under  her 
apparent  coldness  she  conceals  a  warm  and  loving  heart. 
Her  indifference  and  pride  are  but  the  dull  outside  of  a  dia- 
mond of  the  purest  water,  which  some  day  will  shine  forth 
in  its  brilliant  lustre.  Her  bearing  and  manners  are  noble 
and  dignified.  She  has  but  few  friends,  but  these  few  are 
warmly  attached  to  her.  I  know  her  value,  and  predict  for 
her  a  brilliant  future,  if  she  lives  long  enough." 

The  young  princess  was,  indeed,  a  very  fi-ail  and  delicate 
creature,  —  one  of  those  tender  flowers  which  seem  to  wait 
for  the  kind  hand  of  the  gardener  to  transplant  them  into  a 
■warmer  clime.  She  was  charming  and  handsome ;  but  her 
beauty  was  rather  that  of  a  pale  hly  than  that  of  a  blooming 
rose. 

Charlotte  was  just  sixteen  when,  in  the  year  1814,  the 
Grand  Duke  Nicholas,  on  his  way  to  the  camp  of  the  allied 
armies  in  France,  passed  through  Berlin,  and  was  warmly 
welcomed  as  an  honored  guest  at  the  ro3"al  palace. 

The  description  which  those  who  saw  and  knew  the  grand 
duke  at  that  time  have  given  of  the  incomparable  graces  of 
bis  person  and  mind  makes  it  easy  for  us  to  imagine  that  the 
heart  of  a  young  girl  just  budding  into  womanhood  was  cap- 
tivated and  charmed  by  him  almost  at  first  sight.  Well  he 
might  have  said,  like  Csesar,  "  I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquered." 
The  princess  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  fortimately  for  her 
the  young  grand  duke  returned  her  love  fully  as  passionately. 

The  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  had  the  reputation  of  being  one 
of  the  handsomest,  if  not  the  veiy  handsomest  man  of  his 
times  ;  and  his  majestic  and  stately  form,  which  measured  no 
less  than  six  feet  and  two  inches,  was  considered  unequalled 
in  beauty,  not  only  in  Russia,  but  in  all  Europe.  He  was 
vigorous,  strong,  full  of  life  and  health,  with  broad  shoulders 
and  chest,  while  his  small  hands  and  feet  were  of  the  most 
aristocratic  elegance ;  his  whole  figure  realized  the  perfect 
model  of  manly  and  commanding  beauty  which  the  divine 
art  of  a  sculptor  of  antiquity  has  immortalized  under  the  fea- 
tures  of  the   Apollo    Belvedere.     His  features  were  of  the 


206         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

Grecian  cast,  — forehead  and  nose  formed  a  straight  line,  — 
and  his  large  blue,  sincere  eyes  showed  a  singular  combina- 
tion of  composure,  sternness,  self-reliance,  and  pride,  among 
"which  it  Avould  have  been  difficult  for  the  observer  to  name 
the  predominant  expression.  Those  who  would  have  looked 
closely  and  attentively  into  those  remarkable  eyes  would  have 
easily  believed  that  their  threatening  glances  would  suffice  to 
suppress  a  rebellion,  to  terrify  and  disarm  a  murderer,  or  to 
frighten  away  a  supplicant ;  but  there  would  have  been  but 
few  to  believe  that  the  sternness  of  these  eyes  could  be  so 
entirely  softened  as  to  beam  forth  nothing  but  love  and  kind- 
ness. Among  these  few  was,  however,  the  young  Prussian 
princess,  who  had  drunk  deep  in  their  intoxicating  fervor. 
It  is  true  that  she  was  the  only  person  in  tlie  world  in  whose 
presence  the  Olympian  gravity  of  his  features  gave  way  to  a 
radiant  cheerfulness,  which  made  his  manly  beauty  perfectly 
irresistible. 

In  such  moments  his  magnificent  brow,  always  the  seat  of 
meditation  and  thought,  exhibited  the  serene  beauty  and 
Attic  grace  of  a  young  Athenian ;  the  serious  Pericles 
seemed,  by  the  invisible  wand  of  a  magician,  to  have  been 
transformed  into  the  youthful  Alcibiades. 

Such  is  the  flattering  picture  which  his  contemporaries  have 
drawn  of  the  personal  appearance  of  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas 
at  the  time  of  his  arrival  at  Berlin. 

At  that  time,  however,  the  matchless  personal  charms  of 
the  grand  duke  were  not  enhanced  by  political  prospects  of 
the  most  exalted  character.  He  was  not  even  eventually 
considered  an  heir  to  the  imperial  crown  of  Russia.  It  is 
true,  Alexander  the  First,  his  brother,  had  no  children,  but 
in  the  case  of  his  death,  which  could  not  be  expected  soon, 
the  Grand  Duke  Constantino  was  to  inherit  the  throne  of 
Peter  the  Great,  and  leave  to  Nicholas  at  best  but  the  posi- 
tion of  a  prince  of  the  first  blood.  Nevertheless,  Frederick 
William,  charmed  alike  by  the  beauty  and  intellect  of  his 
guest,  and  by  the  hope  of  uniting  the  sovereign  houses  of 
Prussia   and    Russia   by    the    close   ties    of  a  family  union^ 


HOW  KAISER    WILHELM'S    SISTER    WAS   WON.  207 

greeted  the  prospect  of  a  marriage  between  the  grand  duke 
and  his  daughter  with  enthusiasm,  especially  when  he  dis- 
covered that  the  young  folks  themselves  were  very  fond  of 
each  other. 

The  king  then  delicately  insinuated  to  his  daughter  that  if 
she  had  taken  a  likiug  to  the  grand  duke,  and  had  reason  to 
believe  that  the  prince  entertained  similar  feelings  toward 
her,  their  marriage  would  meet  with  no  objection  on  his 
part. 

But  the  young  princess,  although  seci'etly  delighting  in  a 
hope  which  so  fully  responded  to  the  secret  wishes  of  her 
heart,  was  either  too  proud  or  too  bashful  to  confess  to  her 
father  her  love  for  the  gi'and  duke,  who  had  not  yet  made 
any  declaration  to  her. 

In  this  manner  the  day  approached  on  which  the  gi-and 
duke  was  to  leave  Berlin.  On  the  eve  of  his  departure  a 
grand  gala  supper  was  given  in  his  honor  at  the  royal  palace, 
and,  by  way  of  accident  or  policy,  the  young  Princess  Char- 
lotte was  seated  by  the  side  of  her  distinguished  admirer. 

The  grand  duke  was  uncommonly  taciturn  during  the  even- 
ing. His  high  forehead  was  clouded,  and  his  gloomy  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  in  thft  space  vague  phantoms  flitting  before 
his  imagination.  Repeatedly  he  neglected  to  reply  to  ques- 
tions addressed  to  him,  and  when  he  was  asked  to  respond  to 
a  toast  which  one  of  the  royal  princes  had  proposed  in  his 
honor,  he  seemed  to  awake  from  a  profound  dream  which  bad 
entirely  withdrawn  him  from  his  surroundings. 

Suddenly,  as  if  by  a  mighty  effort  of  his  will,  he  turned  to 
his  fair  neighbor,  and  whispered  so  as  only  to  be  understood 
by  her,  — 

"  So  I  shall  leave  Berlin  to-morrow  !  " 

He  paused  abruptly,  and  looked  at  the  princess  as  if  he 
was  waiting  for  an  answer  which  expressed  sorrow  and  grief 
on  her  part.  But  the  princess  was  fully  as  proud  as  the 
grand  duke,  and,  overcoming  the  violent  throbbing  of  her 
heart,  she  said  politely  to  him,  — 

"  We  are  all  very  sorry  to  see  your  Imperial  Highness  leave 


208  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR   READINGS. 

US  so  soon.     Would  it  not  have  been  possible  for  you  to  defer 
your  departure  1 " 

"  You  will  all  be  very  sorry  1 "  muttered  the  grand  duke, 
not  entirely  satisfied  with  the  vagueness  of  sorrow  which 
these  words  of  the  princess  implied.  "  But  you  in  particular, 
madame  1 "  he  added,  after  some  hesitation.  "  For  it  will 
depend  on  you  alone  whether  I  shall  stay  here  or  depart." 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  Charlotte,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  "  and 
what  have  I  to  do  to  keep  your  Imperial  Highness  here? " 

"  You  must  permit  me  to  addi'ess  my  admiration  and  hom- 
age to  you." 

"IsthatalU" 

"And  you  must  encourage  me  to  please  you." 

"  That  is  mvich  more  difficult,"  said  the  princess,  with  a 
deep  blush,  but  at  the  same  time  her  eyes  beamed  forth  so 
much  affection  and  delight  that  the  prince  could  see  at  ^ 
glance  that  his  fondest  hopes  had  been  realized  beforehand. 

"  During  my  short  stay  at  Berlin,'"  the  grand  duke  con- 
tinued, in  the  same  tone  of  voice,  "  I  have  taken  pains  to 
study  your  character  and  your  affections,  and  this  study  has 
satisfied  me  that  you  would  render  me  very  happy,  while  on 
the  other  hand  I  have  some  qualities  which  would  secure 
your  own  happiness." 

The  princess  was  overcome  by  emotion,  and  in  her  con- 
fusion did  not  know  what  to  answer.  At  last  she  said,  "  But 
here,  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  court,  at  the  public  table, 
you  piit  such  a  question  to  me  !  " 

"0," replied  the  prince,  "you  need  not  make  any  verbal 
reply.  It  wall  be  sufficient  for  you  to  give  me  some  pledge 
of  your  affection.  I  see  there  on  your  hand  a  small  ring 
whose  possession  would  make  me  very  happy.  Give  it  to 
me." 

"  What  do  you  think  of?  Here  in  the  presence  of  a  hun- 
dred spectators  1 " 

"  Ah,  it  can  be  easily  done  without  being  seen  by  anybody. 
Now  we  are  chatting  so  quietly  with  each  other  that  there  is 
not  one  among  the  guests  who  suspects  in  the  least  what  we 


HOW   KAISER    WILHELM'S    SISTER    WAS   WON.  209 

are  speaking  about.  Press  the  ring  into  a  morsel  of  bread 
and  leave  it  on  the  table ;  I  will  take  the  talisman,  and 
nobody  will  notice  it." 

"  This  ring  is  really  a  talisman." 

"  I  expected  so.     May  I  hope  to  hear  its  history  1 " 

"  Why  not?  My  first  governess  was  a  Swiss  lady  by  the 
name  of  "\\'11clermatt.  Once  she  went  to  Switzerland  in  order 
to  enter  upon  an  inheritance  which  had  been  bequeathed  to 
her  by  a  distant  relative.  When  she  came  back  to  Berlin,  a 
few  weeks  afterward,  she  showed  me  quite  a  collection  of 
pretty  and  costly  jewelry,  which  formed  part  of  the  inlieri- 
tance.  '  This  is  a  curious  old  ring,'  said  I  to  her,  as  I  put 
this  little  old-fashioned  ring  on  inv  finaer.  'Does  it  not 
look  queer  and  cunning  1  Perhaps  it  is  an  old  relic  or  talis- 
man, and  may  have  been  worn  centuries  ago  by  a  pious  lady 
who  had  received  it  from  her  knight,  starting  for  the  Holy 
Land.'  I  tried  to  take  the  ring  from  my  finger  again,  but 
I  could  not  get  it  off;  for  I  was  a  little  fleshier  then  than 
now,"  said  Charlotte,  smilingly.  "  My  governess  insisted  on 
my  keeping  the  ring  as  a  souvenir.  I  accepted  her  present, 
and  the  ring  has  been  on  my  finger  ever  since.  Some  time 
afterward,  when  I  was  contemplating  its  strange  workman- 
ship, I  siicceeded  in  pulling  it  from  my  finger,  and  was  much 
surprised  at  seeing  engraved  on  the  inside  some  words  which, 
though  nearly  rubbed  out  by  the  wear  of  time,  were  still  legi- 
ble. Now,  your  Imperial  Highness,  what  do  you  think  were 
the  words  engraved  upon  it '?  I  think  when  you  hear  them 
you  will  take  some  interest  in  the  ring.'* 

"  Ah  !  and  pray  what  were  they  1 " 

"  The  words  engraved  upon  the  inside  were,  'Umpress  of 
Jiuxsia.'  This  ring  had  undoubtedly  been  presented  by  an 
Empress  of  Russia  to  the  relative  of  Mrs.  Wildermatt,  for  I 
was  told  that  both  this  lady  and  her  mother  had  formerly 
belonged  to  the  household  of  the  czarina,  your  august  grand- 
mother." 

"This  is  really  remarkable,"  said  the  grand  duke,  thought- 
fully.     "  I  am  quite  superstitious,  and  I  am  really  inclined 


210         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOE  EEADINGS. 

to  regard  this  ring,  if  I  should  be  happy  enough  to  receive 
it  from  you  as  a  pledge  of  your  love,  as  an  omen  of  very  au- 
spicious significance." 

In  answer  to  this  second  and  even  more  direct  appeal  to 
her  heart,  the  princess  took  a  small  piece  of  bread,  played 
carelessly  with  it,  and  managed  to  press  the  ring  into  the 
soft  criimbs.  Then  she  dropped  it  playfully  on  the  table 
quite  close  to  the  plate  of  her  neighbor.  And  after  this 
adroit  exhibition  of  her  skill  as  an  actress  she  continued  to 
eat  as  unconcernedly  as  if  she  had  performed  the  most  insig- 
nificant action  of  her  life. 

With  the  same  apparent  coolness  and  indifference  the  grand 
duke  picked  up  the  bread  enclosing  the  ring,  took  the  latter 
out  of  its  ingenious  envelope,  and  concealed  it  in  his  breast, 
for  it  was  too  small  to  fit  any  of  his  fingers.  It  was  this  ring 
—  both  the  pledge  of  Charlotte's  love  and  the  auspicious  omen 
of  his  own  elevation  to  the  imperial  dignity  —  which  Nich- 
olas wore  on  a  golden  chain  around  his  neck  to  the  very  last 
day  of  his  life,  and  which,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  has  even 
descended  with  him  into  the  vaiilt  of  his  ancestors. 

Three  yeai's  after,  in  181 7,  Princess  Charlotte,  then  only  nine- 
teen years  of  age,  and  in  the  full  splendor  of  beauty  and  hap- 
piness, made  her  entry  into  St.  Petersburg  by  the  side  of  her 
husband,  whose  eye  had  never  looked  prouder,  and  whose 
Olympian  brow  had  never  been  more  serene  than  at  this 
happiest  moment  of  his  life.  As  he  looked  down  upon  the 
Tast  multitude  who  had  flocked  together  from  all  parts  of 
the  vast  empire  to  greet  the  young  princess  with  shouts  and 
rejoicings,  and  then  again  upon  his  fair  young  bride,  perhaps 
the  inscription  of  the  ring  recurred  to  his  mind ;  for,  bending 
his  head  quite  close  to  the  ear  of  Charlotte,  he  whispered, 
"  Now  empress  of  the  hearts,  and  some  day,  perhaps,  empress 
of  the  realm." 

At  this  moment  the  pi'ocession  reached  the  main  entrance 
of  the  Winter  Palace,  where  Alexander  the  First,  the  Emperor, 
surrounded  by  a  brilliant  suit  of  generals  and  courtiers,  came 
to  meet  his  beautiful  sister-in-law,  and  conducted  her  into  the 


A  LEGEND   OF   BEEGENZ.  211 

sumptuous  drawing-rooms  of  the  magnificent  palace  of  the 
czars.  Who  would  believe  that  eight  short  years  afterward 
the  brilliant  young  emperor  had  breathed  his  last,  and  that 
j^icholas  and  Chaidotte  w^ould  succeed  him  on  the  throne  of 
Russia  1  Truly  the  inscription  of  the  engagement-ring  had 
proven  prophetic  ! 


A   LEGEND    OF   BEEGENZ.  —  Adelaide  Procteb. 

aIRT  round  with  rugged  mountains 
The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies  ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected, 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies ; 
And  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  heaven 
Lies  on  our  earth  below  ! 

Midnight  is  there  :  and  silence, 

Enthroned  in  heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town  ; 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance. 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers 

Upon  their  rocky  steep 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep ; 
Mountain  and  lake  and  valley 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 


212  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread  ;  * 

And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  past. 

She  served  kind  gentle  masters, 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones, 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more  strange  ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

"      She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz 

With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years. 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife  ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented, 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  the  old  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land  ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley 
More  peaceful  year  by  year  ; 


A   LEGEND   OF   BKEGENZ.  213 

"WTien  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  com  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
"While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 

Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stem  and  altered, 

^yith  looks  cast  on  the  ground  j 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one. 

The  women  gathered  round  ; 
All  talk  of  flax  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away  ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow, 

With  strangers  from  the  town. 
Some  secret  plan  discussing. 

The  men  talked  up  and  down ; 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled. 

All  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted, 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land  ! 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker,  — 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own !  " 


214         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

The  women  shrank  in  terror, 
(Yet  pride,  too,  had  her  part,) 

But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 
Felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz, 

Once  more  her  towers  arose  ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  1 

Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk, 

The  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains, 

Eeclaimed  her  as  their  own. 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture  and  the  plain  ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision. 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry. 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die  !  " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step  she  sped  ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand  ; 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Towards  her  native  land. 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness,  — 
Faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 

The  smooth  gi-ass  flies  behind  her, 
The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 

She  looks  up  ;  clouds  are  heavy  : 
Why  is  her  steed  so  slow  ]  — 


A   LEGEND   OF   BREGENZ.  215 

Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 
Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"Faster  !  "  she  cries,  "  0,  faster  !  " 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime  ; 
"  0  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  above  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness,  — 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep,  — 
One  pause  —  he  staggers  forward 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein  ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam ' 
And  see  —  in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home  ! 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  her, 

And  now  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier. 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 


216         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !  ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  mauned  ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bi-egenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long, 

And  calls  each  passing  hour  : 
"  Nine,"  "  ten,"  "  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  (0  crown  of  Fame  !) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name  ! 


THE   VOICES   AT    THE   THRONE.  —  :r.  Westwood. 

A  LITTLE  child, 
A  little  meek-faced,  quiet  village  child, 
Sat  singing  by  her  cottage  door  at  eve 
A  low,  sweet  sabbath  song.  '  No  human  ear 
Caught  the  faint  melody,  —  no  human  eye 
Beheld  the  upturned  aspect,  or  the  smile 
That  wreathed  her  innocent  lips  while  they  breathed 


THE   VOICES   AT   THE   THRONE.  217 

The  oft-repeated  burden  of  the  hymn, 
"  Praise  God  !  Praise  God  !  " 

A  seraph  by  the  throne 
In  full  glory  stood.     With  eager  hand 
He  smote  the  golden  harp-string,  till  a  flood 
Of  harmony  on  the  celestial  air 
Welled  forth,  unceasing.     There  with  a  great  voice, 
He  sang  the  "  Holy,  holy  evermore, 
Lord  God  Almighty  ! "  and  the  eternal  courts 
Thrilled  with  the  rapture,  and  the  hierarchies. 
Angel,  and  rapt  archangel,  throbbed  and  burned 
W^ith  vehement  adoration. 

Higher  yet 
Rose  the  majestic  anthem,  without  pause, 
Higher,  with  rich  magnificence  of  sound, 
To  its  full  strength ;  and  still  the  infinite  heavena 
Rang  with  the  "  Holy,  holy  evermore  !  " 
Till,  trembling  with  excessive  awe  and  love. 
Each  sceptred  spirit  sank  before  the  Throne 
With  a  mute  hallelujah. 

But  even  then, . 
While  the  ecstatic  song  was  at  its  height, 
Stole  in  an  alien  voice,  —  a  voice  that  seemed 
To  float,  float  upward  from  some  world  afar,  — 
A  meek  and  childlike  voice,  faint,  but  how  sweet  I 
That  blended  with  the  spirits'  rushing  strain, 
Even  as  a  fountain's  music,  with  the  I'oU 
Of  the  reverberate  thunder. 

Loving  smiles 
Lit  up  the  beauty  of  each  angel's  face 
At  that  new  utterance,  smiles  of  joy  that  grew 
More  joyous  yet,  as  ever  and  anon 
Was  heard  the  simple  burden  of  the  hymn, 
"  Praise  God  !  praise  God  !  " 

And  when  the  seraph's  song 
Had  reached  its  close,  and  o'er  the  golden  lyre 
Silence  hung  brooding,  —  when  the  eternal  courts 
10 


218  PUBLIC    AND    PARLOR    READINGS. 

Rang  with  the  echoes  of  his  chant  sublime, 

Still  thi-ough  the  abysmal  space  that  wandering  voice 

Came  floating  upward  from  its  world  afar, 

Still  murmured  sweet  on  the  celestial  air, 

"  Praise  God  !  praise  God  ! " 


I 


ABOU   EL  MAHR  AND   HIS   HORSE. 

Alger's  Oriental  Poetry. 

T  is  Abou  el  Mahr,  the  gallant  Sheik  of  Al  Azeed ; 
How  fondly  he  is  stroking  Labia,  his  unrivalled  steed  ! 


Among  the  hills  of  Schem  the  tents  of  Al  Azeed  are  pitched, 
And  close  by  every  wanior's  door  the  favorite  horse  is  hitched. 

For  valor  none  can  stand  the  men  of  Al  Azeed  beside  ; 
And  Houri  only  with  their  maids  comparison  can  bide. 

This  tribe  the  unchallenged  banner,  too,  throughout  Arabia 

bears, 
For  the  wondrous  strength  and  beauty  of  their  stallions  and 

their  mares. 

But  first  among  their  warriors  stands  the  Sheik,  Abou  el  Mahr, 
And  conscious  Lahla  shines,  among  their  steeds,  the  peerless 
star. 

Wlien  clasps  Abou  proud  Labia's  neck  to  kiss  his  veined  cheek. 
The  courser  looks  his  love  as  plainly  as  if  he  could  speak. 

Abou  cai-esses  him  before  the  people  gathered  there. 
Who  gaze  with  wonder  at  his  loving  and  his  haughty  air. 

And  Leila,  Selim,  Zar  —  the  wife  and  children  of  the  Sheik  — 
Will  pat  and  kiss  him,  and  his  hoof  within  their  bosoms  take. 


ABOU   EL   MAHR  AND   HIS  HORSE.  219 

And  twenty  chiefs  press  near,  their  servants  ranged  in  ordered 

bauds, 
The  privilege  to  claim  that  he  shall  eat  from  out  their  hands. 

For  Lahla  is  of  Al  Azeed  the  crowning  joy  and  pride  ; 
The  envy  and  despair  of  all  the  Arab  tribes  beside. 

Another  horse  so  celebrated  never  spurned  the  earth  ; 
Through  white  Koureen,  the  mai'e  of  Solomon,  he  draws  his 
birth ; 

And  traces  back,  in  straight,  untainted  rill,  his  royal  blood 
To  thrice  illustrious  Hiifafa,  great  Abraham's  sable  stud. 

Hang  o'er  his  spotless  forehead,  which  is  white  as  whitest  milk, 
Soft  tufts  of  handsome  hair  as  glossy  as  the  finest  silk. 

Those  tufts  compose  a  veil  which  every  breeze  in  openwork 

hems, 
And  underneath  it  glimpse  his  rapid  eyes,  two  burning  gems. 

His  neck  and  chest  the  graces  of  a  swan's  in  nothing  lack  ; 
A  gorgeous  mantle,  woven  of  silk  and  gold,  beclothes  his  back. 

His  pedigree,  two  hundred  high  descents,  his  bosom  wears 
In  bag  of  musk,  wherewith'  two  precious  amulets  he  wears. 

His  limbs  and  sockets  so  elastic,  all  his  motions  are 

So  swift  and  smooth,  the  rider  scarcely  feels  a  start  or  jar. 

Abou  el  Mahr  would  on  his  back,  in  rapid  gallop  still, 
A  brimming  cup  of  sherbet  quaff,  and  not  a  droplet  spill. 

Indeed,  a  bard  so  mounted  might  receive  the  fancy  bold. 
His  courser  was  a  bird  whose  wings  an  unseen  movement  hold. 

No  price  or  bribe  could  cause  the  Sheik,  nor  any  desperate  need, 
To  part  with  his  redoubtable  and  idolized  steed. 


220  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

It  is  Abou  el  Mahr,  with  twelve  choice  men  of  Al  Azeed  ; 
And  they  to  seize  the  hostile  Bagdad  caravan  proceed. 

Soon  through  the  Synor  pass  into  the  open  plain  they  wind, 
And  shake  their  spears,  and  shout,  their  blue  caftans  stream 
wide  behind. 

Abou,  his  Labia's  sinews  strung  with  fire,  is  far  before. 
As  on  the  undefended,  scattering  caravan  they  pour. 

To  guard  their  goods  two  merchants  of  Damascus  bravely  stand, 
But  in  an  instant  both  are  stretched  in  death  upon  the  sand. 

The  Sheik  and  his  good  men  of  Al  Azeed  pile  all  the  spoil 
Upon  the  camels,  and  their  homeward  way  begin  to  toil. 

At  noon  they  halt  to  rest  awhile  beside  a  desert  spring ; 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  what  utter  ruin  one  thoughtless  hoiu-  may 
bring  1 

Their  foe,  the  fierce  Pacha  of  Acre,  leads  his  horsemen  there. 
Cries,   "  Strike  !  and  I  command  you,  save  Abou,  not  one  to 
spare ! " 

So  all  are  slain.     The  Sheik,  in  his  right  arm  a  fearful  wound. 
His  darling  Lahla  led  before,  is  on  a  camel  bound. 

They  journey  on  until  they  reach  the  mountains  of  Saphkd, 
Just  as  the  sun  drops  out  of  sight,  and  night  falls  dark  and  sad. 

The  old  Pacha  commands  each  soldier  there  to  pitch  his  tent, 
And  takes  good  care  the  escape  of  horse  or  camel  to  prevent. 

The  keeper  of  the  Sheik  has  tied  him  fast  both  hand  and  foot, 
And  fallen  asleep,  and  dreams  of  fighting,  routing,  and  pui'suit. 

But  the  poor  captive,  restless  with  his  torturing  wound,  still 

wakes, 
And  Labia's  low,  disconsolate  neigh  his  anguish  sharper  makes. 


ABOU   EL   MAHR   AXD   HIS   HORSE.  221 

Bound  as  he  is,  lie  rolls  and  craw  Is  one  last  caress  to  give 
The  steed  from  whom  he  had  not  thought  to  part  while  he 
should  live. 

"  0  Lahla  !  "  sighs  Abou,  "no  more  shall  I  rejoice  with  thee 
To  skim  the  waste,  the  wild  Simoom  not  prouder  or  more  free  ; 

"  No  more  with  thee  the  Jordan  swim,  whose  spurned  water 

drips 
From  off  thy  side,  as  white  and  pure  as  foam  from  off  thy  lips. 

"  A  bitter  fate  consigns  me  to  my  unrelenting  foe  ; 
But  thou,  bright  gem  of  Al  Azeed,  in  liberty  shalt  go. 

"  "What  wouldst  thou  do,  poor  friend,  shut  in  the  close  and 

wretched  khan 
Of  some  Turk  huckster  not  deserving  to  be  called  a  mani 

"  No,  whether  fortune  dooms  me  for  a  slave  or  here  to  die, 
Thou  shalt,  0  jewel  of  a  thousand  hearts,  in  freedom  fly. 

"  Go  to  the  tents  thou  knowest  so  well,  amid  the  hills  of  Schem, 
And  say,  Abou  el  ^lahr  will  nevermore  return  to  them. 

"  Thy  head  put  through  the  door  where  my  dear  wife  and  chil- 
dren are, 
And  lick  the  hands  of  Leila,  Selim,  and  sweet  little  Zar. 

"  0  Lahla,  Lahla  !  must  I  now  from  thee  forever  part  ? 
Farewell,  farewell,  beloved  comrade  of  my  life  and  heart ! " 

So  saying,  with  his  teeth  laboriously  he  gnawed  apart 
The  tethering  cord  that  went  around  the  stake,  and  bade  him 
start  ! 

But  the  sagacious  soul  bounds  not  away.     The  bonds  he  smells 
That  bind  his  master's  limbs.     Each  fact  to  him  its  secret  tella 


222         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

With  tenderness  he  licks  the  blood  upon  the  shattered  arm, 
Gives  forth  a  low  and  painful  whine,  but  raises  no  alarm. 

His  teeth  the  girdle  seize  ;  he  lifts  Abou,  so  spare  and  tall ; 
Now,  foolish  guards,  now,  old  Pacha,  defiance  to  you  all  ! 

Great  Lahla  proves  himself  a  steed  of  living  steel  and  fire ; 
To  reach  him  vain  are  all  the  struggles  of  their  mad  desire. 

For  the  hills  of  Schem  he  aims  his  way  .through  the  open,  lus- 
trous night. 
Straight  as  an  arrow  goes,  swift  as  the  lightning  in  its  flight. 

The  stars  one  after  one  go  down  behind  the  desert's  rim, 
But  the  pale  and  eager  moon  rushes  in  even  pace  with  him. 

The  palm-clumps  on  oases  lift  their  heads  of  yellow  green 
Above  the  downs  of  endless  sand,  and  vanish  soon  as  seen. 

The  lagging  sun  comes  up  ;  twelve  weary,  mighty  leagues  are 

passed  ; 
The  lovely  haunts  and  tents  of  Al  Azeed  appear  at  last. 

The  anxious  tribe,  whose  thirteen  best  are  out,  is  all  astir ; 
The  mother  deems  it  time  her  sons  should  have  returned  to  her. 

Ha  !  what  upon  the  far  horizon  moves  1     A  single  steed  1 
Is  this  what  we  looked  for  with  such  intensity  of  greed  ] 

Nearer  !  can  it  be  Lahla  1     In  his  mouth  a  bundle  1     No, 
The  matchless  Lahla  never  from  adventure  came  so  slow. 

The  godlike  steed,  with  staggering  steps,  faint  pantings,  almost. 

spent. 
The  girdle  bites,  reels  up,  and  lays  Abou  before  his  tent. 

One  instant  stands  he,  looking  round,  as  if  reward  to  reap 
T'rom  those  who,  thrilled  with  grateful  love  and  wonder,  gaze 
and  weep. 


UXDER   THE   SXOW.  223 

Then,  while  the  congregated  tribe  break  forth  in  piercing  cries, 
The  noble  creature,  gasping,  falls,  all  blood  and  foam,  and  dies. 

Thabet  Ben  Ali,  poet  of  the  tribe,  leaps  through  the  crowd, 
With  soul  on  fire,  and  sings  the  feat  in  panegyric  proud. 

To  thrilling  tones  of  love  and  pride  he  smites  his  burning  lyre  ; 
"With  raining  eyes  and  heaving  bosoms  all  as  one  respire. 

"  No  7;ia«,"  he  says,  "  not  even  Hatim  Tiii,  could  have  done 
A  nobler  deed,  a  more  impassioned  gratitude  have  won. 

"  Long  as  the  Horse  shall  be  the  friend  and  servant  of  our  race, 
The  glorious  fame  of  Labia  shall  resound  through  time  and 
space." 

Full  many  a  day  has  passed  since  Ali  sang  his  touching  song, 
And  from  the  vale  the  tents  of  Al  Azeed  have  vanished  long ; 

But  in  the  night  of  Arab  lore  still  shineth,  like  a  star, 
The  story  of  the  peerless  Labia  and  Abou  el  Mahr. 


UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

~I    TNDER  the  snow  our  baby  lies, 

v_J     The  fringed  lids  dropped  o'er  her  eyes ; 
The  tiny  hands  upon  her  bi'east, 
Like  twin-born  lilies  taking  rest ; 
While  o'er  her  grave  the  rough  winds  blow ; 
Under  the  snow,  —  under  the  snow. 

Under  the  snow  our  baby  lies, 
While  we  sit  at  home  and  list  for  her  cries] 
And  her  mother  asks  (she  is  very  lone), 
"  Why  has  my  little  baby  gone  !> " 


224  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

Ah  !  happy,  she  feeleth  not  ovir  woe  ; 
Under  the  snow,  —  under  the  snow. 

Under  the  snow  our  baby  hes. 
As  pure  as  the  clouds  far  up  the  skies,  — 
Those  delicate  banners  of  vapor,  furled 
Beyond  the  breath  of  this  noisome  world. 
'T  is  the  blood  of  Christ  hath  made  her  so  ; 
Under  the  snow,  —  under  the  snow. 

Above  the  snow  our  baby  dwells. 

Where  never  the  solemn  death-bell  knells  ; 

Where  Sin  and  Death  are  never  known, 

Nor  dark-browed  Pain  with  her  voice  of  moan ; 

Where  the  angels  move  on  wings  that  glow, 

Above  the  snow,  —  above  the  snow. 

Above  the  snow  our  baby  dwells. 

And  we  dry  our  tears  when  we  think  she  swells 

The  song  of  the  angels  and  just  men  there, 

With  a  voice  so  sweet  and  a  face  so  fair. 

And  we  're  glad  we  've  sent  them  a  voice  from  below 

Above  the  snow,  —  above  the  snow. 


HATS.  —  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

THE  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  finding  that  spring 
had  fairly  come,  mounted  a  white  hat  one  day,  and 
walked  into  the  street.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  premature 
or  otherwise  exceptionable  exhibition.  When  the  old  gentle- 
man came  home,  he  looked  very  red  in  the  face,  and  com- 
plained that  he  had  been  "made  sport  of"  By  sympathizing 
questions,  I  learned  from  him  that  a  boy  had  called  him  "  old 
daddy,"  and  asked  him  when  he  had  his  hat  whitewashed. 
This  incident  led  me  to  make  some  observations  at  table' 


HATS.    .  225 

the  next  morning,  which  I  here  repeat  for  the  benefit  of  the 
readers  of  this  record.  The  hat  is  the  vulnerable  point  in 
the  artificial  integument.  I  learned  this  in  eai'ly  boyhood. 
I  was  once  equipped  in  a  hat  of  Leghorn  straw,  having  a  brim 
of  much  wider  dimensions  than  were  usual  at  that  time,  and 
sent  to  school  in  that  portion  of  my  native  town  which  lies 
nearest  to  this  metropolis.  On  my  way  I  was  met  by  a 
"  Port-chuck,"  as  we  used  to  call  the  young  gentlemen  of  that 
locality,  and  the  following  dialogue  ensued  :  — 

The  Port  CJmch.  —  Hullo,  you-sir,  joo  know  th'  wuz  gon-to 
be  a  race  to-morrah  % 

Myself.  —  No.     AVho  's  gon-to  rim,  'n'  wher's  't  gon-to  be  1 

The  Port  ChucJc.  —  Squire  Mico  'n'  Doctor  Williams,  round 
the  brim  o'  your  hat. 

These  two  much-respected  gentlemen  being  the  oldest  in- 
habitants at  that  time,  and  the  alleged  race-course  being  out 
of  the  question,  the  Port-chuck  also  winking  and  thrusting  hia 
tongue  into  his  cheek,  I  perceived  that  I  had  been  trifled  with, 
and  the  effect  has  been  to  make  me  sensitive  and  observant 
respecting  this  article  of  dress  ever  since.  Here  is  an  axiom 
or  two  relating  to  it. 

A  hat  which  has  been  popped,  or  exploded  by  being  sat 
down  upon,  is  never  itself  again  afterwards. 

It  is  a  favorite  illusion  of  sanguine  natures  to  believe  the 
contrary. 

Shabby  gentility  has  nothing  so  characteristic  as  its  hat. 
There  is  always  an  unnatural  calmness  about  its  nap,  and  an 
unwholesome  gloss,  suggestive  of  a  wet  brush.  The  last  effort 
of  decayed  fortune  is  expended  in  smoothing  its  dilapidated 
castor.     The  hat  is  the  nltinium  w.oriens  of  "  respectability." 

The  old  gentleman  took  all  these  remarks  and  maxims  very 
pleasantly,  saying,  however,- that  he  had  forgotten  most  of  his 
French  except  the  word  for  potatoes, — pnn>,7nies  de  tare.  Ul- 
timum  moriens,  I  told  him,  is  old  Italian,  and  signifies  last 
thing  to  die.  With  this  explanation  he  was  well  contented, 
and  looked  quite  calm  when  I  saw  him  afterwards  in  the  entry 
with  a  black  hat  on  his  head  and  the  white  one  in  his  hand. 
10*  o 


226         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


AN   ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE.  —  Alice  Cart. 

OGOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 
Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  di'aw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ] 
Ay  1     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,  — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright,  — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 

Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 

Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound  !)  — 

These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  bom, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside. 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 

Roses  crowding  the  selfsame  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 
A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me ; 
0,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 


AN   ORDER   FOR   A   PICTURE.  227 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  gi'ace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  ang-el's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while  !  — 

I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words  : 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,  — 
She  is  my  mother  :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir :  one  like  me,  — 
The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 

And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 

Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea,  — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now,  — 

He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore,  — 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 

Ah,  't  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  gi-eat-hearted  brother  on  her  deck ; 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 

Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee  : 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far,  — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top, 


228         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

All  of  a  tremble,  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 

That  we,  with  stariug,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped. and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-tree. 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  oiir  flax-field  grew,  — 
Dead  at  the  top,  — just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day  :  — 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir  ;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs,  — 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs. 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat  : 
--  The  berries  we  gave  her  she  would  n't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  1 

If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  : 

I  think  't  was  solely  mine,  indeed  : 

But  that  's  no  matter,  —  paint  it  so  ; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother  —  (take  good  heed)  — 
Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
B)it  straight  through  our  faces  down  to  our  lies. 
And  0,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise  ! 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as  though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know, 
That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 


BARBARA.  229 

Things  that  are  fairest,  thmgs  most  sw'-eet, — 

Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry-tree,  — 

The  mother,  —  the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her  knee  : 

But,  0,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  ! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I  '11  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


BARBARA.  —  Alexander  Smith. 

OX  the  Sabbath  day, 
Through  the  churchyard  old  and  gray, 
Over  the  crisp  and  yellow  leaves,  I  help  my  rustling  way ; 
And  amid  the  words  of  mercy,  falling  on  the  soul  like  balms ; 
'Mong  the  gorgeous  storms  of  music  in  the  mellow  organ-calms; 
'Mong  the  upward-streaming  prayers,  and  the  rich  and  solemn 
psalms, 
I  stood  heedless,  Barbara ! 

My  heart  was  otherwhere, 

While  the  organ  filled  the  air, 

And  the  priest  with  outspread  hands  blessed  the  people  with 

a  prayer. 
But  when  rising  to  go  homeward,  with  a  mild  and  saintlike  shine 
Gleamed  a  face  of  airy  beaut}'  with  its  heavenly  eyes  on  mine, — 
Gleamed  and  vanished  in  a  moment.      0  the  face  was  like  to 

thine, 
Ere  you  perished,  Barbara ! 

0  that  pallid  face  ! 

Those  sweet,  earnest  eyes  of  grace  ! 

^Vhen  last  I  saw  them,  dearest,  it  was  in  another  place ; 

You  came  running  forth  to  meet  me  with  my  love-gift  on  your 

wrist, 
And  a  cursed  river  killed  thee,  aided  by  a  murderous  mist. 
0,  a  purple  mark  of  agony  was  on  the  mouth  I  kissed, 
When  last  I  saw  thee,  Barbara  ! 


230         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READIIWS. 

Those  dreary  years,  eleven, 

Have  you  pined  within  your  heaven, 

And  is  this  the  only  glimpse  of  earth  that  in  that  time  was 

giveial 
And  have  you  passed  unheeded  all  the  fortunes  of  your  race  — 
Your  father's  grave,  your  sister's  child,  your  mother's  quiet 

face  — 
To  gaze  on  one  who  worshipped  not  within  a  kneeling -place  1 
Are  you  happy,  Bai'bara  1 

'Mong  angels  do  you  think 
Of  the  precious  golden  link 

I  bound  around  your  happy  arm  while  sitting  on  yon  brink  1 
Or  when  that  night  of  wit  and  wine,  of  laughter  and  guitars, 
Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watched  through  lattice-bars 
The  silent  midnight  heaven  moving  o'er  us  with  its  stars, 
Till  the  morn  broke,  Barbara  1 

In  the  years  I  've  changed, 
Wild  and  far  my  heart  has  ranged. 

And  many  sins  and  errors  deep  have  been  on  me  avenged  ; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful,  whatsoever  good  I  've  lacked; 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  still  kangs  that  love  intact. 
Like  a  mild,  consoling  rainbow  o'er  a  savage  cataract. 
Love  has  saved  me,  Barbara  ! 

0  Love  !  I  am  unblest, 
With  monstrous  doubts  opprest 

Of  much  that 's  dark  and  nether,  much  that 's  holiest  and  best. 
Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry  shore, 
The  hunger  of  my  soxd  were  stilled ;  for  Death  has  told  you  more 
Than  the  melancholy  world  doth  know,  —  things  deeper  than 
all  lore. 
Will  you  teach  me,  Barbara  ? 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain ! 
You  will  never  come  again  :  — 


THE   BOAT   OF   GRASS.  231 

There  droops  upon  the  dreary  hills  a  mournful  fringe  of  rain, 
The  gloaming  closes  slowly  round,  unblest  winds  are  in  the  tree, 
Round  selfish  shores  forever  moans  the  hurt  and  wounded  sea  : 
There  is  no  rest  upon  the  eartli,  peace  is  with  Death  and  thee,  — 
I  am  weary,  Bai-bara  ! 


THE   BOAT   OF    GRASS.  —  Miss  Kemble  Butler. 

FOR  years  the' slave  endured  his  yoke, 
Down-trodden,  wronged,  misused,  opprest ; 
Yet  life-long  serfdom  could  not  choke 
The  seeds  of  freedom  in  his  breast. 

At  length,  upon  the  north-wind  came 
A  whisper  stealing  through  the  land ; 

It  spread  from  hut  to  hut  like  flame,  — 
"  Take  heart !  the  hour  is  near  at  hand." 

The  whisper  spi-ead,  and  lo  !  on  high 

The  dawn  of  an  unhoped-for  day  ! 
"  Be  glad  !  the  Northern  troops  are  nigh,  — ^ 

The  fleet  is  in  Port-Royal  Bay  !  " 

Responsive  to  the  words  of  cheer, 
An  inner  voice  said,  "  Rise  and  flee  ! 

Be  strong,  and  cast  away  all  fear  : 
Thou  art  a  man,  and  thou  ai't  free  ! " 

And  full  of  new-born  hope  and  might, 

He  started  up,  and  seaward  fled ; 
By  day  he  turned  aside,  by  night 

He  followed  where  the  North  Star  led. 

Through  miles  of  barren  pine  and  waste, 
And  endless  breadth  of  swamp  and  sedge, 


232  PlTBfclC   AND    PARLOR   READINGS. 

By  streams,  whose  tortuous  path  is  traced 
In  tangled  growth  along  their  edge, 

Two  nights  he  fled,  —  no  sound  was  heard, 
He  met  no  creature  on  his  way ; 

Two  days  crouched  in  the  bush ;  the  third 
He  hears  the  bloodhounds'  distant  bay. 

They  drag  him  back  to  sti'ipes  and  shame, 

And  bitter,  unrequited  toil ; 
With  red-hot  gyves  his  feet  they  maim, 

All  future  thought  of  flight  to  foil. 

We,  shuddering,  turn  from  such  a  cup, 
Nor  dare  to  look  on  his  despair ; 

For  them,  0,  let  us  offer  up 
The  Saviour's  sacrificial  prayer  ! 

But  the  celestial  voice,  that  spake 

Erst  in  his  soul,  might  not  be  hushed ; 

The  sense  of  birthright,  once  awake, 
Could  never,  nevermore  be  crushed. 

And,  brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  will. 
He  kept  his  purpose,  laid  his  plan  ; 

Though  crippled,  chained  and  captive  still, 
A  slave  no  longer,  but  a  man. 

Eleven  months  his  soul  he  steeled 
To  toil  and  wait  in  silent  pain, 

But  in  the  twelfth  his  wounds  were  healed,  ■ 
He  biu-st  his  bonds,  and  fled  again. 

A  weary  winding  stream  he  sought, 
And  crossed  its  w^aters  to  and  fro,  — 

An  Indian  wile,  to  set  at  naught 
The  bloody  instinct  of  his  foe. 


THE   BOAT   OF   GEASS.  233 

The  "waters  widen  to  a  fen, 

And,  while  he  hid  him,  breathless,  there, 
"With  brutal  cries  of  dogs  and  men, 

The  hunt  went  round  and  round  his  lair. 

The  baffled  hounds  had  lost  the  track  : 

With  many  a  curse  and  many  a  cry. 
The  angry  owners  called  them  back  ; 

And  so  the  wild  pursuit  went  by. 

The  deadly  peril  seemed  to  pass ; 

And  then  he  dared  to  raise  his  head 
Above  the  waving  marish  grass, 

That  mantled  o'er  the  river-bed. 

Those  long  broad  leaves  that  round  him  grew 

He  had  been  wont  to  bind  and  plait ; 
And  well,  with  simple  skill,  he  knew 

To  shape  the  basket  and  the  mat. 

Now,  in  their  tresses  sad  and  dull 

He  saw  the  hope  of  his  escape, 
And  patiently  began  to  cull. 

And  weave  them  in  canoe-like  shape. 

To  give  the  reedy  fabrics  light 

An  armor  'gainst  the  soaking  brine, 
With  painful  care  he  sought  by  night 

The  amber  weepings  of  the  pine. 

And  since  on  the  Egyptian  wave. 

The  Hebrew  lavmched  her  little  ark, 
Faith  never  to  God's  keeping  gave 

So  great  a  hope,  so  frail  a  bark. 

0  silent  river  of  the  South, 

Whose  lonely  stream  ne'er  felt  the  oar 


234         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

In  all  its  course,  from  rise  to  mouth, 

What  precious  freight  was  that  you  bore  ! 

The  grizzled  oak  and  tall  dark  pine 

Stretch  out  their  boughs,  from  either  bank, 

Across  the  stream,  and  many  a  vine 
Festoons  them  with  luxuriance  rank. 

The  yellow  jasmine  fills  the  shade 

With  golden  light,  and  downward  shed, 

From  slender  wreaths  that  lightly  swayed, 
Her  fragrant  stars  upon  his  head. 

But  still  the  boat,  from  dawn  to  dark, 
'Neath  overhanging  shrubs  was  drawn  ; 

And,  loosed  at  eve,  the  little  bark 
Safe  floated  on  from  dark  to  dawn. 

At  length,  in  that  mysterious  hour 
That  comes  before  the  break  of  day, 

The  current  gained  a  swifter  power, 
The  boat  began  to  rock  and  sway. 

He  felt  the  wave  beneath  him  swell. 
His  nostrils  drank  a  fresh  salt  breath, 

The  boat  of  rushes  rose  and  fell  : 
"  Lord  !  is  it  life  or  is  it  death  1 " 

He  saw  the  eastern  heaven  spanned 
With  a  slow-spreading  belt  of  gray ; 

Tents  glimmered,  ghost-like,  on  the  sand  ; 
And  phantom  ships  before  him  lay. 

The  sky  grew  bright,  the  day  awoke, 
The  sun  flashed  up  above  the  sea. 

From  countless  drum  and  bugle  broke 
The  joyous  Northern  reveille. 


THE  IDIOT   BOY.  235 

0  white-winged  waiTiors  of  the  deep  ! 

Ko  heart  e'er  hailed  you  so  before ; 
No  castaway  on  desert  steep, 

Nor  banished  man,  his  exile  o'er, 

Nor  drowning  wretch  lashed  to  a  spar, 

So  blessed  your  rescuing  sails  as  he 
Who  on  them  first  beheld  from  far 

The  morning  light  of  Liberty  ! 


THE   IDIOT  BOY.— SouTHBT. 

IT  had  pleased  God  to  form  poor  Ned 
A  thing  of  idiot  mind, 
Yet  to  the  poor,  unreasoning  boy 
God  had  not  been  unkind. 

Old  Sarah  loved  her  helpless  child, 
Whom  helplessness  made  dear, 

And  life  was  everything  to  him 
Who  knew  no  hope  or  fear. 

She  knew  his  wants,  she  understood, 

Each  half-ailic'late  call, 
For  he  was  everything  to  her, 

And  she  to  him  was  all. 

And  so  for  many  a  year  they  lived. 

Nor  knew  a  wish  beside  ; 
But  age  at  length  on  Sarah  came, 

And  she  fell  sick  and  died. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  waken  her. 
He  called  her  o'er  and  o'er ; 


236  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  READINGS. 

They  told  him  she  was  dead,  —  the  word 
To  him  no  import  bore. 

They  closed  her  eyes  and  shrouded  her, 
Whilst  he  stood  wondering  by, 

And  when  they  bore  her  to  the  grave 
He  followed  silently. 

They  laid  her  in  the  narrow  house, 
And  sung  the  funeral  stave, 

And  when  the  mournful  train  dispersed 
He  loitered  by  the  grave. 

The  rabble  boys  that  used  to  jeer 
Whene'er  they  saw  poor  Ned, 

Now  stood  and  watched  him  at  the  grave, 
And  not  a  word  was  said. 

They  came  and  went  and  came  again, 
And  night  at  last  drew  on  ;  • 

Yet  still  he  lingered  at  the  place 
Till  every  one  had  gone. 

And  when  he  foimd  himself  alone 
He  quick  removed  the  clay, 

And  raised  the  coffin  in  his  arms 
And  bore  it  quick  away. 

Straight  went  he  to  his  mother's  cot 

And  laid  it  on  the  floor. 
And  with«the  eagerness  of  joy 

He  barred  the  cottage  door. 

At  once  he  placed  his  mother's  corpse 

Upright  within  her  chair, 
And  then  he  heaped  the  hearth  and  blew 

The  kindling  fire  with  care. 


THE  MAD   EXGIXEER.  237 

She  -was  now  in  her  wonted  cliair, 

It  was  her  wonted  ph\ce, 
And  bright  the  fire  bhized  and  flashed, 

Reflected  from  her  face. 

Then,  bending  down,  he  'd  feel  h'er  hands, 

Anon  her  face  behold  ; 
"  Why,  mother,  do  you  look  so  pale, 

And  why  are  you  so  cold  1 " 

And  when  the  neighbors  on  next  morn 

Had  forced  the  cottage  door, 
Old  Sarah's  corpse  was  in  the  chair. 

And  Ned's  was  on  the  floor. 

It  had  pleased  God  from  this  poor  boy 

His  only  friend  to  call ; 
Yet  God  was  not  unkind  to  him, 

For  death  restored  him  all.  ^ 


THE   MAD    ENGINEER. 

THIS  thrilling  story  is  furnished  by  a  Prussian  railroad 
conductor. 
My  train  left  Dantzic  in  the  morning  generally  about  eight 
o'clock  ;  but  once  a  week  we  had  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of  the 
steamer  from  Stockholm.  It  was  the  morning  of  the  steam- 
er's arrival  that  I  came  down  from  the  hotel  and  found  that 
my  engineer  had  been  so  seriously  injured  that  he  could  not 
perform  his  work.  A  rail way-can'i age  had  run  over  him,  and 
broken  one  of  his  legs.  I  went  immediately  to  the  engine- 
house  to  procure  another  engineer,  for  I  knew  there  were  three 
or  four  in  reserve  there,  but  I  was  disappointed.  I  inquired 
for  Westphal,  but  was  informed  that  he  had  gone  to  Sreegen 
to  see  his  mother.     Gondolpho  had  been  sent  to  Konigsberg, 


238  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

on  the  road.     But  wheye  was  Mayne  1   He  had  leave  of  absence 
for  two  days,  and  had  gone  no  one  knew  whither. 

Here  was  a  fix.  I  heard  the  puffing  of  the  steamer,  and 
the  passengers  would  be  on  hand  in  fifteen  minutes.  I  ran 
to  the  guards  and  asked  them  if  they  knew  where  there  was 
an  engineer,  but  they  did  not.  I  then  went  to  the  firemen 
and  asked  them  if  any  one  of  them  felt  competent  to  run  the 
engine  to  Bromberg.  No  one  dared  to  attempt  it.  The  dis- 
tance was  nearly  one  hundred  miles.     What  was  to  be  done  'i 

The  steamer  stopped  at  the  wharf,  and  those  who  were  going 
on  by  rail  came  flocking  to  the  station.  They  had  eaten 
breakfast  on  board  the  boat,  and  were  all  i-eady  for  a  fresh 
start.  The  baggage  was  checked  and  registered,  the  tickets 
bought,  the  different  carriages  assigned  to  the  variovis  classes 
of  passengers,  and  the  passengers  themselves  seated.  The 
train  was  in  readiness  in  the  long  station-house,  and  the 
engine  was  steaming  and  puffing  away  impatiently  in  the 
distant  firing-house. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock. 

■"Come,  why  don't  we  start?"  gi'owled  an  old  fat  Swede, 
who  had  been  watching  me  narrowly  for  the  last  fifteen 
minutes. 

And  upon  this  there  was  a  general  chorus  of  anxious 
inquiry,  which  soon  settled  to  downright  murmuring.  At 
this  juncture  some  one  tonched  me  on  the  elbow.  I  turned 
and  saw  a  stranger  by  my  side.  I  expected  that  he  was 
going  to  remonstrate  with  me  for  my  backwardness.  In 
fact,  I  began  to  have  strong  temptations  to  pull  off  my 
uniform,  for  every  anxious  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  glaring 
badges  which  marked  me  as  the  chief  officer  of  the  train. 

However,  this  stranger  was  a  middle-aged  man,  tall  and 
stout,  with  a  face  of  great  energy  and  intelligence.  His  eye 
was  black  and  brilliant,  —  so  brilliant  that  I  could  not  for  the 
life  of  me  gaze  steadily  into  it ;  and  his  lips,  which  were  very 
thin,  seemed  more  like  polished  marble  than  human  flesh. 
His  dress  was  black  throughout,  and  not  only  set  with  exact 
nicety,  but  was  scrupulously  clean  and  neat. 


THE   MAD   ENGINEER.  239 

"You  want  an  engineer,  I  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  low, 
cautious  tone,  at  the  same  time  gazing  quietly  about  him,  as 
though  he  wanted  no  one  to  hear  what  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  I  replied.  "  My  train  is  all  ready,  and  we  have  no 
engineer  within  twenty  miles  of  this  place." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  going  to  Bromberg  ;  I  must  go,  and  I  will 
run  the  engine  for  you  !  " 

"  Ha  I  "  I  uttered,  "  are  you  an  engineer  ]  " 

"  I  am,  sir,  —  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  country,  —  and  am 
now  on  my  way  to  make  arrangements  for  a  gi-eat  improve- 
ment I  have  invented  for  the  application  of  steam  to  a  locomo- 
tive. My  name  is  Martin  Kroller.  If  you  wish,  I  will  run 
as  far  as  Bromberg ;  and  I  will  show  you  running  that  is 
running." 

Was  I  not  fortunate  1  I .  determined  to  accept  the  man's 
offer  at  once,  and  so  I  told  him.  He  received  my  answer  with 
a  nod  and  a  smile.  I  went  with  him  to  the  house,  where  we 
found  the  iron-horse  in  charge  of  the  fireman,  and  all  ready 
for  a  start.  Kroller  got  upon  the  platform,  and  I  followed 
him.  I  had  never  seen  a  man  betray  such  peculiar  aptness 
amid  machinery  as  he  did.  He  let  on  the  steam  in  an  instant, 
but  yet  with  care  and  judgment,  and  he  backed  up  to  the  bag- 
gage-caiTiage  with  the  most  exact  nicety.  I  had  seen  enough 
to  assure  me  that  he  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  tlie 
business,  and  I  felt  composed  once  more.  I  gave  my  engine 
up  to  the  new  man,  and  then  hastened  away  to  the  office. 
Word  was  passed  for  all  the  passengers  to  take  their  seats, 
and  soon  afterward  i  waved  my  hand  to  the  engineer.  There 
was  a  puff,  —  a  groaning  of  the  heavy  axletrees,  —  a  trembling 
of  the  building,  —  and  the  train  was  in  motion.  I  leaped  upon 
the  platform  of  the  guard-carriage,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more 
the  station-house  was  far  behind  us. 

In  less  than  an  hour  we  reached  Dirsham,  where  we  took 
up  the  passengers  that  had  come  on  the  Kcinigsberg  railwa}'. 
Here  I  went  forward  and  asked  Kroller  how  he  liked  the 
engine.      He  replied  that  he  liked  it  very  much. 

"  But,"  he  added,  with  a  strange  sparkling  of  the  eye,  "wait 


240  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   READINGS. 

until  I  get  mj  improvement,  and  then  you  •will  see  travelling. 
By  the  soul  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  sir,  I  could  run  an  engine 
of  my  construction  to  the  moon  in  four-and-twenty  hours  ! " 

I  smiled  at  what  I  thought  his  enthusiasm,  and  then  went 
back  to  my  station.  As  soon  as  the  Konigsberg  passengers 
were  all  on  board,  and  their  baggage-carriage  attached,  we 
started  on  again.  Soon  after,  I  went  into  the  guard-cari'iage, 
and  sat  dowai.  An  early  train  from  Konigsberg  had  been 
through  two  hours  before  reaching  Bromberg,  and  that  waa 
at  Little  Oscue,  where  we  took  on  boai'd  the  Western  mail. 

"  How  we  go  !  "  uttered  one  of  the  guai'd,  some  fifteen 
minutes  after  we  had  left  Dirsham. 

"  The  new  engineer  is  trying  the  speed,"  I  replied,  not  yet 
having  any  fear. 

But  erelong  I  began  to  apprehend  he  was  running  a  little 
too  fast.  The  carriages  began  to  sway  to  and  fro,  and  I  could 
hear  exclamations  of  fright  from  the  passengers. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  cried  one  of  the  guard,  coming  in  at 
that  moment,  "  what  is  that  fellow  doing  1  Look,  sir,  and 
see  how  we  are  going." 

I  looked  at  the  window,  and  found  that  we  were  dashing 
along  at  a  speed  never  before  travelled  on  that  road.  Posts, 
fences,  rocks,  and  trees  flew  by  in  one  imdistinguished  mass, 
and  the  carriages  now  swayed  fearfully.  I  started  to  my  feet, 
and  met  a  passenger  on  the  platform.  He  was"  one  of  the 
chief  owners  of  our  road,  and  was  just  on  his  way  to  Berlin. 
He  was  pale  and  excited. 

"  Sir,"  he  gasped,  "  is  Martin  Kroller  on  the  engine  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  told  him. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  did  n't  you  know  him  1 " 

"Kuowl"  I  repeated,  somewhat  puzzled;  "what  do  you 
mean  1  He  told  me  his  name  was  Kroller,  and  that  he  was 
an  engineer.     We  had  no  one  to  run  the  engine,  and  —  " 

"  You  took  him  !  "  interrupted  the  man.  "  Good  heavens, 
sir,  he  is  as  crazy  as  a  man  can  be  !  He  turned  his  brain 
over  a  new  plan  for  applying  steam  power.  I  saw  him  at  the 
station,  but  did  not  fully  recognize  him,  as  I  was  in  a  hurry. 


THE   MAD  ENGINEER.  241 

Just  now  one  of  your  passengers  told  me  that  your  engineers 
were  all  gone  this  morning,  and  that  you  found  one  that  was 
a  stranger  to  you.  Then  I  knew  that  the  man  whom  I  had 
seen  was  Martin  Kroller.  He  had  escaped  from  the  hospital 
at  Stettin.     You  must  get  him  off  somehow." 

The  whole  fearful  truth  was  now  open  to  me.  The  speed 
of  the  train  was  increasing  every  moment,  and  I  knew  that  a 
few  more  miles  per  hour  would  launch  us  all  into  destruction. 
I  called  to  the  guard,  and  then  made  my  way  forward  as  quick 
as  possible.  I  reached  the  after  platform  of  the  after  tender, 
and  there  stood  Kroller  upon  the  engine-board,  his  hat  and 
coat  off,  his  long  black  hair  floating  wildly  in  the  wind, 
his  shirt  unbuttoned  at  the  front,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  with 
a  pistol  in  his  teeth,  and  thus  glaring  upon  the  fireman,  who 
lay  motioidess  upon  the  fuel.  The  furnace  was  stuff'ed  till 
the  very  latch  of  the  door  was  red  hot,  and  the  whole  engine 
was  quivering  and  swaying  as  though  it  would  shiver  to  pieces. 

"  Kroller  !   Kroller  !  "  I  cried  at  the  top  of  my  voice. 

The  crazy  engineer  started  and  caught  the  pistol  in  his 
hand.  0,  how  those  great  black  eyes  glared,  and  how  ghastly 
and  frightful  the  face  looked  ! 

"  Ha  ■  ha !  ha  !  "  he  yelled  demoniacally,  glaring  upon  me 
like  a  roused  lion. 

"  They  swore  that  I  could  not  make  it  !  But  see  !  see  ! 
See  my  new  power  !  See  my  new  engine  !  I  made  it,  and 
they  are  jealous  of  me  !  I  made  it,  and  when  it  was 
done,  they  stole  it  from  me.  But  I  have  found  it !  For 
years  I  have  been  wandering  in  search  of  my  great  en- 
gine, and  they  swore  it  was  not  made.  But  I  have  found 
it !  I  knew  it  this  morning  when  I  saw  it  at  Dantzic,  and  I 
was  determined  to  have  it.  And  I  've  got  it !  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! 
■we  're  on  the  way  to  the  moon,  I  say  !  By  the  Virgin  Mother, 
we  '11  be  in  the  moon  in  foiir-and-twenty  hours.  Down, 
down,  villain  !     If  you  move,  T  '11  shoot  you." 

This  was  spoken  to  the  poor  fireman,  who  at  that  moment 
attempted  to  rise,  and  the  fi'ightened  man  sank  back  again. 

"  Here  's  Little  Oscue  just  before  us  !  "  cried  out  one  of  the 
U  p 


242  PUBLIC  a:^d  paeloe  eeadings. 

guard.  But  even  as  he  spoke  the  buildings  were  at  hand. 
A  sickening  sensation  settled  upon  my  heart,  for  I  supposed 
that  we  were  now  gone.  The  houses  flew  by  like  lightning. 
I  knew  if  the  officers  here  had  turned  the  switch  as  usual,  we 
should  be  hurled  into  eternity  in  o)ie  fearful  crash.  I  saw  a 
flash,  —  it  was  another  engine,  —  I  closed  my  eyes  ;  but  still 
we  thundered  on  !  The  officers  had  seen  our  speed,  and, 
knowing  that  we  would  not  head  up  in  that  distance, 
they  had  changed  the  switch,  so  that  we  went  forward. 

But  there  was  sure  death  ahead,  if  we  did  not  stop.  Only 
fifteen  miles  from  us  was  the  town  of  Schwartz,  on  the  Vis- 
tula ;  and  at  the  rate  we  were  going  we  should  be  there  in  a 
few  minutes,  for  each  minute  carried  us  over  a  mile.  The 
shrieks  of  the  passengers  now  rose  above  the  crash  of  the 
rails,  and  more  terrific  than  all  else  arose  the  demoniac  yells 
of  the  mad  engineer. 

"Merciful  heavens  !"  gasped  the  guardsman,  "there's  not 
a  moment  to  lose;  Schwartz  is  close.  But  hold,"  he  added; 
"  let 's  shoot  him." 

At  that  moment  a  tall,  stout  German  student  came  over 
the  platform  where  we  stood,  and  we  saw  that  the  madman 
had  his  heavy  pistol  aimed  at  us.  He  grasped  a  huge  stick 
of  wood,  and,  with  a  steadiness  of  nerve  which  I  could  not  have 
commanded,  he  hurled  it  with  such  force  and  precision  that  he 
knocked  the  pistol  from  the  maniac's  hand.  I  saw  the  move- 
ment, and  on  the  instant  that  the  pistol  fell  I  sprang  forward, 
and  the  German  followed  me.  I  grasped  the  man  by  the  arm ; 
but  I  should  have  been  nothing  in  his  mad  power,  had  I  been 
alone.  He  would  have  hurled  me  from  the  platform,  had  not 
the  student  at  that  moment  struck  him  upon  the  head  with  a 
stick  of  wood  which  ho  caught  as  he  came  over  the  tender. 

Kroller  settled  down  like  a  dead  man,  and  on  the  next 
instant  I  shut  off"  the  steam  and  opened  the  valve.  As  the 
freed  steam  shrieked  and  howled  in  its  escape,  the  speed 
began  to  decrease,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the  danger 
was  passed.  As  I  settled  back,  entirely  overcome  by  the  wild 
emotions  that  had  raged  within  me,  we  began  to  turn  the 


THE   JIAD   ENGINEER.  243 

river;  and  before  I  was  fairly  recovered,  the  fireman  had 
stopped  the  train  in  the  station-house  at  Schwartz. 

Martin  Kroller,  still  insensible,  was  taken  from  the  plat- 
form ;  and,  as  we  carried  him  to  the  guiu"d-room,  one  of  the 
guard  recognized  him,  and  told  us  that  he  had  been  there 
about  two  weeks  before. 

"  He  came,"  said  the  guard,  "  and  swore  that  an  engine 
which  stood  nearby  was  his.  He  said  it  w^as  one  he  had  made 
to  go  to  the  moon  in,  and  that  it  had  been  stolen  from  him. 
We  sent  for  more  help  to  arrest  him,  and  he  fled." 

"  Well,"  I  replied  with  a  shudder,  "  I  wish  he  had  ap- 
proached me  in  the  same  way ;  but  he  was  more  cautious  at 
Dantzic." 

At  Schwartz  -we  found  an  engineer  to  run  the  engine  to 
Bromberg  ;  and  having  taken  out  the  Western  mail  for  the 
next  Northern  mail  to  carry  along,  we  saw  that  Kroller  would 
be  properly  attended  to,  and  then  started  on. 

The  rest  of  the  trip  wo  ran  in  safety,  though  I  could  see 
the  passengers  were  not  wholly  at  ease,  and  would  not  be  until 
they  were  entirely  clear  of  the  railway.  A  heavy  purse  was 
made  up  by  them  for  the  German  student,  and  he  accepted  it 
with  much  gratitude,  and  I  was  glad  of  it ;  for  the  current 
of  gratitude  to  him  may  have  prevented  a  far  different  ciu*- 
rent  of  feeling  which  might  have  poured  upon  my  head  for 
having  engaged  a  madman  to  run  a  railroad  train. 

But  this  is  not  the  end.  Martin  Kroller  remained  insen- 
sible from  the  effects  of  the  blow  nearly  two  weeks  ;  and 
when  he  recovered  from  that,  he  was  sound  again,  his 
insanity  was  all  gone.  I  saw  him  about  three  weeks  after- 
ward, but  he  had  no  recollection  of  me.  He  i-emembered 
nothing  of  the  past  year,  not  even  his  mad  freak  on  my 
engine. 

But  I  remembered  it,  and  I  remember  it  still ;  and  the  peo- 
ple need  never  fear  that  I  shiJl  be  imposed  upon  again  by  a 
crazi)  engineer. 


244  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   READINGS. 


ROCK  ME   TO   SLEEP.  —  Mrs.  Akers. 

BACKWARD,  turn  backward,  0  Time,  in  your  flight. 
Make  me  a  cliild  again,  just  for  to-night ! 
Mother,  come  liack  from  the  echoless  shore. 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore,  — 
Kiss  from  mv  forehead  the  furrows  of  care. 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair, 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loying  watch  keep,  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  0  tide  of  the  years  ! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,  — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain  — 
Take  them  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away,  — 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  0  mother,,  my  heart  calls  for  you  ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded  —  our  faces  between  — 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again ; 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep,  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  \ 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  are  flown 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone,  — 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours,  — 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  world-weary  brain ; 
Slumber's  soft  calm  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep,  -^ 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  \ 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS.  245 

Come,  let  yom*  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old,  — 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ! 
For,  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more, 
Haply  will  throng  the  visions  of  yore, 
Lovingly,  softl}^,  its  bright  billows  sweep,  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mother,  dear  mother  !  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  last  I  listened  your  lullaby  song. 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soid  it  shall  seem 
"Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream ; 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace. 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  I 


THE  BRIDGE  OF   SIGHS. —  Hood. 

•'  Drowned !  drowned ! "  —  Hamlet. 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 
Weaiy  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lilt  her  with  care ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements. 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  j 


246         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her'moiirnfuUy, 
Gently  and  hutBanly,  — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers,  — 
One  of  Eve's  family,  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  liers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb,  — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses,  — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  1 

Who  was  her  father  1 
Who  was  her  mother  ] 
Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother  1 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  1 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  chai'ity 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS.  247 

Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh,  it  was  pitiful  ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  winds  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  th6  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  fi-om  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly,  — 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran,  — 
Picture  it,  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man  I 


248  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can. 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fan- ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decetitly,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them. 
Staring  so  blindly ! 
Dreadfully  staring. 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futmity ! 

Perishing  gloomily. 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest ! 
Cross  her  hands  humbly. 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 


MONA'S  WATERS.  249 


MONA'S   WATERS. 

OiMONA'S  waters  are  blue  and  bright 
When  the  sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young  lover ; 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 

When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 
The  wild  wind  drives  the  crested  foam 

Far  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mountain, 
And  booming  echoes  drown  the  voice, 
The  silvery  voice,  of  Mona's  fountain. 

Wild,  wild,  against  that  mountain's  side 

The  wrathful  waves  were  up  and  beating, 
When  stern  Glenvarloch's  chieftain  came ; 

With  anxious  brow,  and  hurried  greeting, 
He  bade  the  widowed  mother  send, 

(While  loud  the  tempest's  voice  was  raging,) 
Her  fair  young  son  across  the  flood. 

Where  winds  and  waves  their  strife  were  waging. 

And  still  that  fearful  mother  prayed, 
' "  0  yet  delay,  delay  till  morning, 
For  weak  the  hand  that  guides  our  bark, 

Though  brave  his  heart,  all  danger  scorning.-' 
Little  did  stei'n  Glenvai'loch  heed  : 

"  The  safety  of  my  fortress  tower 
Depends  on  tidings  he  must  bring 

From  Fairlee  bank,  within  the  hour. 

"  See'st  thou,  across  the  sullen  wave, 

A  blood-red  banner,  wildly  streaming  ] 
That  flag  a  message  brings  to  me 

Of  which  my  foes  are  little  dreaming. 
The  boy  must  put  his  boat  across 

(Gold  shall  I'cpay  his  hour  of  danger), 
And  bring  me  back,  with  care  and  speed, 

Three  letters  from  the  light-browed  stranger." 
11* 


250  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

The  orphan  boy  leaped  lightly  in ; 

Bold  was  his  eye  and  brow  of  beauty, 
And  bright  his  smile  as  thus  he  spoke  : 

"  I  do  but  pay  a  vassal's  duty; 
Fear  not  for  me,  0  mother  dear ; 

See  how  the  boat  the  tide  is  spurning ; 
The  storm  will  cease,  the  sky  will  clear, 

And  thou  wilt  watch  me  safe  returning." 

His  bark  shot  on,  — now  up,  now  down, 

Over  the  waves,  —  the  snowy-crested ; 
Now  like  a  dart  it  sped  along. 

Now  like  a  white-winged  sea-bird  rested ; 
And  ever  when  the  wind  sank  low, 

Smote  on  the  ear  that  woman's  wailing. 
As  long  she  watched,  with  streaming  eyes, 

That  fragile  bark's  uncertain  sailing. 

He  reached  the  shore,  —  the  letters  claimed ; 

Triumphant,  heard  the  stranger's  wonder 
That  one  so  young  should  brave  alone 

The  heaving  lake,  the  rolling  thunder. 
And  once  again  his  snowy  sail 

Was  seen  by  her,  —  that  mourning  mother  j 
And  once  she  heard  his  shouting  voice,  — 

That  voice  the  waves  were  soon  to  smother. 

Wild  burst  the  wind,  wide  flapped  the  sail, 

A  crashing  peal  of  thunder  followed  ; 
The  gi;st  swept  o'er  the  water's  face, 

And  caverns  in  the  deep  lake  hollowed. 
The  gust  swept  past,  the  waves  grew  calm, 

The  thunder  died  along  the  mountain  ; 
But  where  was  he  who  used  to  play, 

On  sunny  days,  by  Mona's  fountain  1 

His  cold  corpse  floated  to  the  shore 

Where  knelt  his  lone  and  shrieking  mother; 


MONA'S  WATERS.  251 

And  bitterly  she  wept  for  him, 

The  widow's  son,  who  had  no  brother ! 
She  raised  his  arm,  —  the  hand  was  closed ; 

With  pain  his  stiffened  lingers  parted, 
And  on  the  sand  three  letters  dropped  !  — • 

His  last  dim  thought,  —  the  faithful-hearted. 

Glenvarloch  gazed,  and  on  his  brow 

Remorse  with  pain  and  grief  seemed  blending; 
A  purse  of  gold  he  flung  beside 

That  mother,  o'er  her  dead  child  bending. 
0,  wildly  laughed  that  woman  then, 

"  Glenvarloch  !  would  ye  dare  to  measure 
The  holy  life  that  God  has  given 

Against  a  heap  of  golden  treasure  1 

"  Ye  spurned  my  prayer,  for  we  were  poor ; 

But  know,  proud  man,  that  God  hath  power 
To  smite  the  king  on  Scotland's  throne, 

The  chieftain  in  his  fortress  tower. 
Frown  on  !   frown  on  !     I  fear  ye  not ; 

We  've  done  the  last  of  chieftain's  bidding, 
And  cold  he  lies,  for  whose  young  sake 

I  used  to  bear  your  wrathful  chiding. 

"  Will  gold  bring  back  his  cheerful  voice 

That  used  to  win  my  heart  from  sorrow  1 
Will  silver  warm  the  frozen  blood. 

Or  make  my  heart  less  lone  to-morrow  1 
Go  back  and  seek  your  mountain  home, 

And  when  ye  kiss  your  fair-haired  daughter 
Remember  him  who  died  to-night 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Mona's  water," 

Old  years  rolled  on,  and  new  ones  came,  — 
Foes  dare  not  brave  Glenvarloch's  tower ; 

But  naught  could  bar  the  sickness  out 
That  stole  within  fair  Annie's  bower. 


252  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOE   EEADINGS. 

The  o'erblown  floweret  in  the  sun 

Sinks  langiiid  down,  and  withers  daily, 

And  so  she  sank,  her  voice  grew  faint, 
Her  laugh  no  longer  sounded  gayly. 

Her  step  fell  on  the  old  oak  floor 

As  noiseless  as  the  snow-shower's  drifting ; 
And  from  her  sweet  and  serious  eyes 

They  seldom  saw  the  dark  lid  lifting. 
"  Bring  aid  !  bring  aid  !  "  the  flither  cries  ; 

"  Bring  aid  !  "  each  vassal's  voice  is  crying ; 
*'  The  fair-haired  beauty  of  the  isles, 

Her  pulse  is  faint,  —  her  life  is  flying  !  " 

He  called  in  vain  ;  her  dim  eyes  turned 

And  met  his  own  with  parting  sorrow, 
For  well  she  knew,  that  fading  girl. 

That  he  must  weep  and  wail  the  morrow. 
Her  faint  breath  ceased  ;  the  father  bent 

And  gazed  upon  his  fair-haired  daughter. 
What  thought  he  on  1     The  widow's  son, 

And  the  stormy  night  by  Mona's  water. 


HIGHER  VIEWS  OF  THE  UNION.  —  Wendell  Phillips. 

I  CONFESS  the  pictures  of  the  mere  industrial  value  of  the 
Union  make  me  profoundly  sad.  I  look,  as  beneath  the 
skilful  pencil  trait  after  trait  leaps  to  glowing  life,  and  ask  at 
last,  Is  this  all]  Where  are, the  nobler  elements  of  national 
purpose  and  life  1  Is  this  the  whole  fruit  of  ages  of  toil,  sac- 
rifice, and  thought, — those  cunning  fingers,  the  overflowing  lap, 
labor  vocal  on  every  hillside,  and  commerce  whitening  every 
sea?  All  the  dower  of  one  haughtj',  overbearing  race,  the 
zeal  of  the  Puritan,  the  faith  of  the  Quaker,  a  century  of 
colonial  health,  and  then  this  large  civilization,  —  does  it  result 


HIGHER   VIEWS   OF   THE   UNION.  253 

only  in  a  workshop, — fops  melted  in  baths  and  perfumed, 
and  men  gi-imed  with  toil  1  Raze  out,  then,  the  Eagle  from 
our  banner,  and  paint  instead  Niagara  used  as  a  cotton- 
mill ! 

0  no  !  not  such  the  picture  my  glad  heart  sees  when  I  look 
forward.  Once  plant  deep  in  the  national  heart  the  love  of 
right,  let  there  grow  out  of  it  the  firm  purpose  of  duty,  and 
then  fi-om  the  higher  plane  of  Christian  manhood  we  can  put 
aside,  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left,  these  narrow,  childish, 
and  mercenary  considerations. 

* '  Leave  to  the  soft  Campanian 

His  baths  and  his  perfumes  ; 
Leave  to  the  sordid  race  of  TjTe 

Their  dyeing  vats  and  looms  ; 
Leave  to  the  sons  of  Carthage 

The  rudder  and  the  oar, 
Leave  to  the  Greek  his  marble  njmiph 

And  scrolls  of  wordy  lore  "  ;  — 

but  for  us,  the  children  of  a  purer  civilization,  the  pioneers 
of  a  Christian  future,  it  is  for  us  to  found  a  Capitol  whose 
corner-stone  is  Justice,  and  whose  top-stone  is  Liberty ;  with- 
in the  sacred  precinct  of  whose  Holy  of  Holies  dwelleth  One 
who  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  hath  made  of  one  blood 
all  nations  of  the  earth  to  serve  him. 

Crowding  to  the  shelter  of  its  stately  arches,  T  see  old  and 
young,  learned  and  ignorant,  rich  and  poor,  native  and  for- 
eign. Pagan,  Christian,  and  Jew,  black  and  white,  in  one  glad, 
harmonious,  triumphant  procession ! 

"  Blest  and  thrice  blest  the  Roman 

Who  sees  Rome's  brightest  day  ; 
Who  sees  that  long  victorious  pomp 

Wind  down  the  sacred  way, 
And  through  the  bellowing  Forum, 

And  round  the  suppliant's  Grove, 
Up  to  the  everlasting  gates 

Of  Capitolian  Jove  1 " 


254        PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


THE   BELLS.  — Edgar  A.  Poe. 


H' 


"EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  — 
Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Rnuic  rhyme, 
To  the  tiutinabiilation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  — 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  oiit  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 
0,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 


THE   BELLS.  255 

Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  rhjining  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  — 
Brazen  bells  ! 
"What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  tm'bulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune,  ' 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
0  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells, 
Of  Despair  ! 
How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar  t 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows. 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  wrangling,        » 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 


256         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  aiiright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
Fi'om  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people  — ' 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling. 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone,  — ■ 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,. 

They  are  Ghouls  : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
Rolls, 
A  psean  from  the  bells,  — 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pfean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  pa3an  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells  : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 


^ 


THE   DRUM-CALL   IN   1861.  257 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolhng  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


THE  DRUM-CALL   IN   1861. —E.  J.  Cutler. 

THE  drum's  wild  roll  awakes  the  land ;  the  fife  is  calling 
shrill ; 
Ten  thousand  stany  banners  blaze  on  town  and  bay  and  hill ; 
The  thunders  of  the  rising  war  drown  Labor's  peaceful  hum, 
And  heavy  to  the  ground  the  first  dark  drops  of  battle  come. 


Wake,  sons  of  heroes,  wake  !  The  age  of  heroes  dawns  again  ; 
Truth  takes  in  hand  her  ancient  sword,  and  calls  her  loyal  men. 
Lo  !  brightly  o'er  the  breaking  day  shines  Freedom's  holy 

star; 
Peace  cannot   cure   the  sickly  time.     All   hail   the   healer, 

War ! 

That  voice  the  Empire  City  heard ;  't  was  heard  in  Boston  Bay; 
Then  to  the  lumber-camps  of  Maine  sped  on  its  eager  way. 
Over  the  breezy  j^rairie  lands,  by  bluff  and  lake  it  went, 
To  where  the  Mississippi  shapes  the  plastic  continent ; 
Then  on,  by  cabin  and  by  fort,  by  stony  wastes  and  sands. 
It  rang  exultant  down  the  sea  where  the  Golden  City  stands. 
And  wheresoe'er  the  summons  came,  there  rose  an  angry  din, 
As  when  upon  a  rocky  coast  a  stormy  tide  sets  in. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Sweet  is  the  praise  of  harvest-home,  of  sylvan  haunts  and 
brooks. 


258  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Of  red  swords  into  ploughshares  beat,  of  spears  to  pruning- 

hooks, 
Of  the  long  splendor  of  the  Arts  the  fervid  years  disclose ; 
But  mid  the  victories  of  Peace,  the  heart  a-straying  goes. 

^a  *  •  •  ■ 

But  sweeter  than  the  song  of  Peace,  the  ringing  battle-shout,  — 
"When   Error's  thistle-calyx  bursts.  Truth's  pur^jle  blossoms 

out ; 
And  lovelier  than  the  waving  grain,  the  battle-flag  unfurled 
Amid  the  din  of  trump  and  drum  to  lead  the  onward  world  ! 
Then  mothers,  sisters,  daughters  !    spare  the  tears  you  fain 

would  shed. 
Who  seem  to  die  in  such  a  cause,  you  cannot  call  them  dead ! 
0,  length  of  da^^s  is  not  a  boon  the  brave  man  prayeth  for  ! 
There  are  a  thousand  evils  worse  than  death  or  any  war  : 
Oppression,  with  his  iron  strength  fed  on  the  souls  of  men ; 
And  License,  with  the  hungry  brood  that  kennel  in  his  den. 
But  Law,  the  form  of  Liberty  !    God's  light  is  on  thy  brow ; 
And  Liberty,  the  soul  of  Law  !  God's  very  self  art  thou. 
Divine  ideas  !  we  write  your  names  across  our  banner's  fold  ; 
For  you  the  sluggard's  brain  is  fire,  for  you  the  coward  bold. 
Fair  daughter  of  the  bleeding  Past !  Bright  hope  the  Prophets 

saw  ! 
God  give  us  Law  in  Liberty,  and  Liberty  in  Law ! 

Hurrah  !  the  drums  are  beating  ;  the  fife  is  calling  shrill ; 
Ten  thousand   starry  banners  flame  on  town   and  bay  and 

hill ; 
The  thunder?  of  the  rising  war  hush  Labor's  drowsy  hum  ; 
Thank  God  that  we  have  lived  to  see  the  saffron  morning 

come  !  — 
The  moraing  of  the  battle-call,  to  every  soldier  dear. 
0  joy  !  the  cry  is  "  Forward  !  "    0  joy  !  the  foe  is  near  ! 
For  all  the  crafty  men  of  peace  have  failed  to  purge  the  land. 
Hurrah  !   the  ranks  of  battle  close ;   God  takes  his  cause  iu 

hand  1 


THE   GALLEY-SLAVE.  259 


THE  GALLEY-SLAYE.  — Hexry  Abbey. 

THERE  lived  in  France,  in  days  not  long  now  dead, 
A  farmer  s  sons,  twin  brothers,  like  in  face  ; 
And  one  was  taken  in  the  other's  stead 

For  a  small  theft,  and  sentenced  in  disgrace 
To  serve  for  years  a  hated  galley-slave, 

Yet  said  no  word  his  prized  good  name  to  save. 

Trusting  remoter  days  would  be  more  blessed, 

He  set  his  will  to  wear  the  verdict  out, 
And  knew  most  men  are  prisoners  at  best 

Who  some  strong  habit  ever  drag  about, 
Like  chain  and  ball ;  then  meekly  prayed  that  he 
Rather  the  prisoner  he  was  should  be. 

But  best  resolves  are  of  such  feeble  thread, 
They  may  be  broken  in  Temptation's  hands. 

After  long  toil  the  guiltless  prisoner  said  : 

"  Why  should  I  thus,  and  feel  life's  precious  sands 

The  narrow  of  my  glass,  the  present,  run, 

For  a  poor  crime  that  I  have  never  done  1 " 

Such  questions  are  like  cups,  and  hold  reply  ; 

For  when  the  cliance  swung  wide  the  prisoner  fled, 
And  gained  the  country  road,  and  hastened  by 

Brown  furrowed  fields  and  skipping  brooklets  fed 
By  shepherd  clouds,  and  felt  'neath  sapful  trees 
The  soft  hand  of  the  mesmerizing  breeze. 

Then,  all  that  long  day  having  eaten  naught, 
He  at  a  cottage  stopped,  and  of  the  wife 

A  brimming  bowl  of  fragrant  milk  besought. 
She  gave  it  him  ;  but  as  he  quaffed  the  life, 

Down  her  kind  face  ho  saw  a  single  tear 
Pursue  its  wet  and  sorrowful  career. 


360  PUBLIC    AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Within  the  cot  he  now  beheld  a  man 

And  maiden  also  weeping.     "  Speak,"  said  be, 

And  tell  me  of  your  grief ;  for  if  I  can, 
I  will  disroot  the  sad  tear-fruited  tree." 

The  cotter  answered  :  "  In  default  of  rent 

We  shall  to-morrow  from  this  roof  be  sent." 

Then  said  the  galley-slave  :  "  Whoso  returns 
A  prisoner  escaped  may  feel  the  spur 

To  a  right  action,  and  deserves  and  earns 
Proffered  reward.     I  am  a  prisoner  ! 

Bind  these  my  arms,  and  drive  me  back  my  way, 

That  your  reward  the  price  of  home  may  pay." 

Against  his  wish  the  cotter  gave  consent. 
And  at  the  prison-gate  received  his  fee, 

Though  some  made  it  a  thing  for  wonderment 
That  one  so  sickly  and  infirm  as  he, 

When  stronger  would  have  dared  not  to  attack, 

Could  capture  this  bold  youth  and  bring  him  back. 

Straightway  the  cotter  to  the  mayor  hied 
And  told  him  all  the  story,  and  that  lord 

Was  much  affected,  dropping  gold  beside 
The  pursed  sufficient  silver  of  reward  ; 

Then  wrote  his  letter  in  authority, 
Asking  to  set  the  noble  prisoner  free. 

There  is  no  nobler,  better  life  on  earth 
Than  that  of  conscious,  meek  self-sacrifice. 

Such  life  our  Saviour,  in  his  lowly  birth 
And  holy,  work,  made  his  sublime  disguise, 

Teaching  this  truth,  still  rarely  understood  : 

'T  is  sweet  to  suffer  for  another's  good. 


THE   DIVER.  261 


THE  DIVER.  —  Schiller. 

«  /^  WHERE  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so  bold 
V^  As  to  dive  to  the  liowling  char^-bdis  below  ]  — 

I  cast  into  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 
And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow ; 

TMioever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring 

Shall  have  for  his  guerdon  that  gift  of  his  king." 

He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  teiTible  steep 
That,  rugged  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 

Of  the  endless  and  measureless  world  of  the  deep, 
Swirled  into  the  maelstrom  that  maddened  the  surge. 

"  And  where  is  the  diver  so  stout  to  go  — 

I  ask  ye  again  —  to  the  deep  below  1 " 

And  the  knights  and  the  squires  that  gathered  around 
Stood  silent,  aixl  fixed  on  the  ocean  their  eyes  ; 

They  looked  on  the  dismal  and  savage  profound, 

And  the  peril  chilled  back  every  thought  of  the  prize. 

And  thrice  spoke  the  monarch,  —  "  The  cup  to  win, 

Is  there  never  a  wight  who  will  venture  in  1 " 

And  all  as  befoi-e  heard  in  silence  the  king, 

Till  a  youth  with  an  aspect  unfearing  but  gentle, 

'Mid  the  tremulous  squires,  stept  out  from  the  ring, 
Unbuckling  his  girdle,  and  doifing  his  mantle ; 

And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder, 

On  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gDvp 
One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main  ; 

Lo  !  the  wave  that  forever  devours  the  wave 
Casts  roaringly  up  the  charybdis  again ; 

And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  foamingly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom 


262         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending ; 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 

And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 

Like  a  sea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 

And  at  last  there  lay  open  the  desolate  realm ! 

Through  the  breakers  that  whitened  the  waste  of  the  swell, 
Dark,  dark  yawned  a  cleft  in  the  midst  of  the  whelm, 

The  path  to  the  heart  of  that  fathomless  hell. 
Round  and  round  whirled  the  waves  —  deep  and  deeper  still 

driven, 
Like  a  gorge  through  the  mountainous  main  thunder-riven. 

The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker  !     Before 
That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again  — 

Hark  !  a  shriek  from  the  crowd  rang  aloft  from  the  shore, 
And,  behold  !   he  is  whirled  in  the  grasp  of  the  main ! 

And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  rolled. 

And  the  giant-mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

O'er  the  surface  grim  silence  lay  dark  and  profound, 
But  the  deep  from  below^  murmured  hollow  and  fell ; 

And  the  crowd,  as  it  shuddered,  lamented  aloud,  — 

"  Gallant   youth,    noble    heart,    fare   thee   well,  fare  thee 
well ! " 

And  still  ever  deepening  that  wail  as  of  woe, 

More  hollow  the  gulf  sent  its  howl  from  below. 

If  thou  shouldst  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling. 
And  cry,  "  Who  may  find  it  shall  wnn  it,  and  wear," 

Gods  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king, 
A  crown  at  siich  hazard  were  valued  too  dear. 

For  never  did  lips  of  the  living  reveal 

What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 


THE   DIVER.  263 

0  mauy  a  ship,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 

Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave  ; 

Again,  crashed  together,  the  keel  and  the  mast 

To  be  seen,  tossed  aloft  in  the  glee  of  the  wave.  — 

Like  the  grow-th  of  a  storm  ever  louder  and  clearer, 

Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending ; 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  np-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending ; 

And,  as  with  the  sw^ell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And  lo  !  fi'om  the  heart  of  that  far-floating  gloom 

What  gleams  on  the  darkness  so  swanlike  and  white  ] 

Lo  !  an  arm  and  a  neck,  glancing  up  from  the  tomb  !  — 
They  battle,  —  the  Man's  with  the  Element's  might. 

It  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  —  in  his  left  hand  behold, 

As  a  sign,  as  a  joy,  shines  the  goblet  of  gold  ' 


I 


And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 
And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day. 

They  gaze  on  each  other ;  they  shout  as  they  thi'ong,  — 
"  He  lives,  —  lo,  the  ocean  has  rendei-ed  its  prey  ! 

And  out  of  the  grave  where  the  Hell  began, 

His  valor  has  rescued  the  living  man  !  " 

And  he  comes  with  the  crowd  in  their  clamor  and  glee, 
And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water 

He  lifts  to  the  king  as  he  sinks  on  his  knee  ; 

And  the  king  from  her  maidens  has  beckoned  his  daughter, 

And  he  Ijade-  her  the  wine  to  his  cup-beai-er  bring. 

And  thus  spake  the  Diver,  —  "  Long  life  to  the  king ! 

"  Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given  ! 


264  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

May  the  horror  below  nevermore  find  a  voice, 

J>for  man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven ! 
Nevermore,  nevermore  may  he  hft  from  the  mirror 
The  veil  which  is  woven  with  Night  and  with  Terror  ! 

"  Quick  brightening  like  lightning,  it  tore  me  along, 
Down,  down,  till  the  gush  of  a  torrent  at  play 

In  the  rocks  of  its  wilderness  caught  me,  and  strong 
As  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  it  whirled  me  away. 

Vain,  vain  were  my  struggles  ;  the  circle  had  won  me  ; 

Round  and  round  in  its  dance  the  wild  element  spun  me. 

*'  And  I  called  on  my  God,  and  my  God  heard  my  prayer, 
In  the  strength  of  my  need,  in  the  gasp  of  my  breath, 

And  showed  me  a  crag  that  rose  up  from  the  lair. 
And  I  clung  to  it,  trembling,  and  baffled  the  death. 

And,  safe  in  the  perils  around  me,  behold, 

On  the  spikes  of  the  coral,  the  goblet  of  gold  ! 

"Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 

Spread  the  gloomy  and  pin-ple  and  pathless  obscure,  — 

A  silence  of  horror  that  slept  on  the  ear. 

That  the  eye  more  appalled  might  the  horror  endure  1 

Salamander,  snake,  dragon,  —  vast  reptiles  that  dwell 

In  the  deep,  —  coiled  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  hell. 

"  Dark  crawled,  glided  dark  the  unspeakable  swarms, 
Lilie  masses  unshapen,  made  life  hideously. 

Here  chmg  and  here  bristled  the  fashionless  forms  ; 
Here  the  hammei'-fish  darkened  the  dark  of  the  sea ; 

And  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 

Went  the  terrible  shark,  the  hyena  of  ocean. 

"  There  I  hung,  and  the  awe.  gathered  icily  o'er  me. 

So  far  from  the  earth  where  man's  help  there  was  none ; 

The  one  human  thing,  with  the  goblins  before  me,  — 
Alone,  in  a  loneness  so  ghastly,  —  Alone  ! 


THE  di\t:r.  265 

Fathom-deep  from  man's  eye  in  the  speechless  profound, 
With  the  death  of  the  main  and  the  monsters  around. 

"  Methought,  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 
A  hundred-liml>ed  creature  caught'  sight  of  its  prey, 

And  darted  —     0  God  !  from  the  far-flaming  bough 
Of  the  coral,  I  swept  on  the  horrible  way ; 

And  it  seized  me,  —  the  wave  with  its  wrath  and  its  roar,  — 
It  seized  me  to  save,  —  King,  the  danger  is  o'er  ! " 

On  the  youth  gazed  the  monarch,  and  mai'velled  ;  quoth  he, 
"  Bold  diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine  ; 

And  this  ring  will  I  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee,  — 
Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine,  — 

If  thou  'It  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again 

To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main !  " 

Then  outspake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion, 

"  Ah  I  father,  ray  father,  what  more  can  there  rest  1 

Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean  ; 

He  has  served  thee  as  none  would,  thyself  has  confest. 

If  nothing  can  slake  thy  wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Be  yoiu"  knights  not,  at  least,  put  to  shame  by  the  squire  ! " 

The  king  seized  the  goblet ;  he  swung  it  on  high, 
And,  whirling,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide  ;. 

"  But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I  '11  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  ray  side ; 

And  thine  arms  shall  embrace  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 

The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thee." 

In  his  heart,  as  he  listened,  there  leapt  the.  wild  joy, 

And  the  hope  and  the  love  through  his  eyes  spoke  in  fire. 

On  that  bloom,  on  that  blush,  gazed,  delighted,  the  boy ; 
The  maiden  she  faints  at  the  feet  of  her  sire. 

Here  the  guerdon  divine,  there  the  danger  beneath  ; 

He  resolves  I  —  To  the  strife  with  the  life  and  the  death  ! 

12 


266  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   READINGS. 

They  hear  the  loud  surges  sweep  back  in  their  swell ; 

Their  coming  the  thunder-sound  heralds  along  ! 
Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell  — 

They  come,  the  wild  waters  in  tumult  and  throng, 
Rearing  up  to  the  cliff,  roaring  back  as  before  ; 
But  no  wave  ever  brought  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore. 


DEATH   OF   LEONIDAS.  — Crolt. 

IT  was  the  wild  midnight,  —  a  storm  was  in  the  sky, 
The  lightning  gave  its  light,  and  the  thunder  echoed  by ) 
The  torrent  swept  the  glen,  the  ocean  lashed  the  shore,  — ■ 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  men,  to  make  their  bed  in  gore ! 

Swift  from  the  deluged  ground  three  hundred  took  the  shield  ; 

Then,  silent,  gathered  round  the  leader  of  the  field. 

He  spoke  no  warrior-word,  he  bade  no  trumpet  blow ; 

But  the  signal  thunder  roared,  and  they  rushed  upon  the  foe. 

The  fiery  element  showed,  with  one  mighty  gleam. 
Rampart  and  flag  and  tent,  like  the  spectres  of  a  dream ; 
All  up  the  mountain  side,  all  down  the  woody  vale, 
All  by  the  rolling  tide,  waved  the  Persian  banners  pale. 

And  King  Leonidas,  among  the  slumbering  band, 
Sprang  foremost  from  the  pass,  like  the  lightning's  living  brand ; 
"Then  double  darkness  fell,  and  the  forest  ceased  to  moan, 
But  there  came  a  clash  of  steel,  and  a  distant  dying  groan. 

Anon,  a  trumpet  blew,  and  a  fiery  sheet  burst  high. 

That  o'er  the  midnight  threw  a  blood-red  canopy  : 

A  host  glared  on  the  hill,  a  host  glared  by  the  bay ;  - 

But  the  Greeks  rushed  onward  still,  like  leopards  in  their  play. 


DEATH   OF   LEOXIDAS.  267 

The  air  was  all  a  yell,  and  the  earth  was  all  a  flame, 
Where  the. Spartan's  bloody  steel  on  the  silken  turbans  came  ; 
And  still  the  Greeks  rushed  on,  beneath  tlie  fiery  fold, 
Till,  like  a  rising  sun,  shone  Xerxes'  tent  of  gold. 

They  found  a  roj-al  feast,  his  midnight  banquet,  there  ! 
And  the  treasiu'es  of  the  East  lay  beneath  the  Doric  spear  ; 
Then  sat  to  the  repast  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  — 
That  feast  must  be  their  last,  that  spot  must  be  their  grave ! 

They  pledged  old  Sparta's  name  in  cups  of  Syrian  wine. 
And  the  warrior's  deathless  fame  was  sung  in  strains  divine  ; 
They  took  the  rose-wreathed  lyres  from  eunuch  and  from 

slave, 
And  taught  the  languid  wires  the  sounds  that  Freedom  gave. 

But  now  the  moraing  star  crowned  CEta's  twilight  brow. 
And  the  Persian  horn  of  war  from  the  hill  began  to  blow ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  rank,  to  Greece  one  cup  poured  high, 
Then,  hand  in  hand,  they  di'ank,  —  "  To  Irnmortality  !  " 

Fear  on  King  Xerxes  fell,  when,  like  spirits  from  the  tomb, 
With  shout  and  trumpet-knell,  he  saw  the  warriors  come ; 
But  down  swept  all  his  power,  with  chariot  and  with  charge,  — 
Down  poured  the  arrowy  shower,  till  sank  the  Dorian  targe. 

They  marched  within  the  tent,  with  all  their  strength  unstrung; 
To  Greece  one  look  they  sent,  then  on  high  their  torches  flung ; 
To  heaven  the  blaze  uprolled,  like  a  mighty  altar-fire. 
And  the  Persians'  gems  and  gold  were  the  Grecians'  funeral 
pyre. 

Their  king  sat  on  his  throne,  his  captains  by  his  side, 
"While  the  flame  rushed  roaring  on,  and  their  paean  loud  replied! 
Thus  fought  the  Greek  of  old !     Thus  will  he  %ht  again  ! 
Shall  not  the  selfsame  mould  bring  forth  the  selfsame  men  ? 


268  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   READINGS. 


MY   EXPERIENCE   IN   ELOCUTION.  — John  Neal. 

IN  the  academy  I  attended,  elocution  was  taught  in  a  way 
I  never  shall  forget,  —  never  !  We  had  a  yearly  exhibi- 
tion, and  the  favorites  of  the  preceptor  were  allowed  to  speak 
a  piece ;  and  a  pretty  time  they  had  of  it.  Somehow,  I  was 
never  a  favorite  with  any  of  my  teachers  after  the  first 
two  or  three  days ;  and,  as  I  went  barefooted,  I  dare  say  it 
was  thought  unseemly,  or  perhaps  cruel,  to  expose  me  upon 
the  platform.  And  then,  as  I  had  no  particular  aptitude  for 
public  speaking,  and  no  relish  for  what  was  called  oratory,  it 
was  never  my  luck  to  be  called  up. 

Among  my  schoolmates,  however,  was  one,  —  a  very  amia- 
ble, shy  boy,  —  to  whom  was  assigned,  at  the  last  exhibition 
I  attended,  that  passage  in  Pope's  Homer  beginning  with 
"Aurora,  now  fair  daughter  of  the  dawn."  This  the  poor 
boy  gave  with  so  much  emphasis  and  discretion  that,  to  me, 
it  sounded  like  "  0  roarer ! "  and  I  was  wicked  enough,  out 
of  sheer  envy  I  dare  say,  to  call  him  "  0  roarer  !  "  — a  nick- 
name which  clung  to  him  for  a  long  while,  thoiigh  no  human 
being  ever  desei-ved  it  less ;  for  in  speech  and  action  both,  he 
was  quiet,  reserved,  and  sensitive. 

My  next  experience  in  elocution  was  still  more  dishearten- 
ing, so  that  I  never  had  a  chance  of  showing  what  I  was 
capable  of  in  that  way,  till  I  set  up  for  myself.  Master 
Moody,  my  next  instructor,  was  thought  to  have  uncommon 
qualifications  for  teaching  oratory.  He  was  a  large,  hand- 
some, heavy  man,  over  six  feet  high ;  and  having  understood 
that  the  first,  second,  and  third  prerequisite  in  oratory  was 
action,  the  boys  he  put  in  training  were  encouraged  to  most 
vehement  and  obstreperous  manifestations.  Let  me  give  an 
example,  and  one  that  weighed  heavily  on  my  conscience  for 
many  years  after  the  poor  man  passed  away. 

Among  his  pupils  were  two  boys,  brothers,  who  were 
thought  highly  gifted  in  elocution.  The  master,  who  was 
evidently  of  that  opinion,  had  a  habit  of  parading  them  on 


MY  EXPERIENCE  ESI  ELOCUTION.  269 

all  occasions  before  visitors  and  strangers ;  though  one  had 
lost  his  upper  front  teeth  and  lisped  badly,  and  the  other  had 
the  voice  of  a  penny-trumpet.  Week  after  week,  these  boys 
went  through  the  quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,  for  the  ben- 
efit of  myself  and  others,  to  see  if  their  example  would  not 
provoke  us  to  a  genei'ous  competition  for  all  the  honors. 

.  How  it  operated  on  the  other  boys  in  after  life  I  cannot 
say;  but  the  effect  on  me  was  decidedly  unwholesome. —  dis- 
couraging, indeed  —  until  I  was  old  enough  to  judge  for  my- 
self, and  to  carry  into  operation  a  system  of  my  own;  believ- 
ing that  men  should  always  talk  —  I  do  not  say  they  should 
talk  always  —  on  paper  and  off,  on  the  platform  and  at  the 
bar,  in  the  senate-chamber  and  at  the  dinner-table,  —  if  they 
would  not  forego  all  the  advantages  of  experience  in  private 
life,  when  they  launch  into  public  life. 

On  coming  to  the  passage,  "  Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your 
thunderbolts,  —  dash  him  in  pieces !  "  the  elder  of  the  two 
gave  it  after  the  following  fashion  :  "  Be  ready,  godths,  with 
all  your  thunderbolths,  —  dath  him  in  pietheth  !  "  —  bringing 
his  right  fist  down  into  his  left  palm  with  all  his  strength, 
and  his  lifted  foot  upon  the  platform,  which  was  built  like  a 
sounding-board,  so  that  the  master  himself,  who  had  sug- 
gested the  action,  and  obliged  the  poor  boy  to  rehearse  it 
over  and  over  again,  appeared  to  be  utterly  carried  away  by 
the  magnificent  demonstration  ;  while  to  me  —  so  deficient 
was  1  in  rhetorical  taste  —  it  sounded  like  the  crash  of  broken 
crockery,  intermingled  with  chicken-peeps. 

I  never  got  over  it ;  and  to  this  day,  cannot  endure  stamp- 
ing, nor  even  tapping  with  the  foot,  nor  clapping  the  hands 
together,  nor  thumping  the  table  for  illustration ;  having  an 
idea  that  such  noises  are  not  oratory,  and  that  untranslatable 
sounds  are  not  language. 

My  next  essay  was  of  a  somewhat  different  kind.  I  took 
the  field  in  person,  being  in  my  nineteenth  year,  well  propor- 
tioned, and  already  beginning  to  have  a  sincere  relish  for 
[Kjetry,  if  not  for  declamation.  I  had  always  been  a  great 
reader ;  and  in  the  course  of  my  foraging  depredations  I  had 


270  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  EEADIXGS. 

met  with  "  The  Sailor-Boy's  Dream,"  and  "  The  Lake  of  tho 
Dismal  Swamp,"  both  of  which  I  had  committed  to  memory 
before  I  kuew  it. 

And  one  day,  happening  to  be  alone  with  my  sister,  and 
newly  rigged  out  in  a  student's  gown,  such  as  the  lads  at 
Brunswick  sported  when  they  came  to  show  off  among 
their  old  companions,  I  proposed  to  astonish  her  by  rehears- 
ing these  two  poems  in  appi-opriate  costume.  Being  very 
proud  of  her  brother,  and  very  obliging,  she  consented  at 
once,  —  Tipon  the  condition,  however,  that  our  dear  mother, 
who  had  never  seen  anything  of  the  sort,  should  be  invited 
to  make  one  of  the  audience. 

On  the  whole,  I  rather  think  that  I  succeeded  in  astonish- 
ing both.  I  well  remember  their  looks  of  amazement  —  for 
they  had  never  seen  anything  better  or  —  worse  —  in  all 
their  lives,  and  were  no  judges  of  acting  —  as  I  swept  to  and 
fro  in  that  magnificent  robe,  with  outstretched  arms  and  up- 
lifted eyes,  when  I  came  to  passages  like  the  following,  where 
an  apostrophe  was  called  for  :  — 

"And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  hrake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till,  starting,  he  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
'  0,  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ? '  " 

Or  like  this  :  — 

"0  sailor-boy  !  sailor-boy  !  peace  to  thy  shade  ! 
Aroiuid  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow, 
.  Of  thy  fair  yellow  hair  threads  of  amber  be  made. 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below  "  ;  — 

throwing  up  my  arms,  and  throwing  them  out  in  every  pos- 
sible direction  as  the  spirit  moved  me,  of  the  sentiment 
prompted  ;  for  I  always  encouraged  my  limbs  and  features  to 
think  for  themselves,  and  to  act  for  themselves,  and  never 
predetermined  -—  never  forethought  —  a  gesture  nor  an  intona- 
tion in  all  my  life  ;  and  should  as  soon  think  of  counterfeiting 
another's  look  or  step  or  voice,  or  of  modulating  my  own  by 


THE   KINGDOM.  .  271 

a  pitcli-pipe,  —  as  the  ancient  orators  did,  with  whom  oratory 
was  acting-elocution,  a  branch  of  the  dramatic  art,  —  as  of 
adopting  or  imitating  the  gestux-es  or  tones  of  the  most  cele- 
brated rhetorician  I  ever  saw. 

The  result  was  quite  encouraging.  My  mother  and  sister 
were  both  satisfied.  At  any  rate,  they  said  nothing  to  the 
contrary.  Being  only  in  my  nineteenth  year,  what  might  I 
not  be  able  to  accomplish  after  a  little  more  experience  ] 

How  little  did  I  think,  while  rehearsing  before  my  mother 
and  sister,  that  anything  serious  would  ever  come  of  it,  or 
.that  I  was  laying  the  foundations  of  character  for  life,  or  that 
I  was  beginning  what  I  should  not  be  able  to  finish  within 
the  next  forty  or  fifty  years  following.  Yet  so  it  was.  I  had 
broken  the  ice  without  knowing  it.  These  things  were  but 
the  foreshadowing  of  what  happened  long  afterward. 


THE   KINGDOM. —Lizzie  Doten. 

TTl  WAS  the  ominous  month  of  October, 
_1_    How  the  memories  rise  in  my  soul, 

How  they  swell  like  a  sea  in  my  soul !  — 
When  a  spirit,  sad,  silent,  and  sober. 

Whose  glance  was  a  word  of  control, 
Drew  me  down  to  the  black  Lake  Avernus, 

In  the  desolate  kingdom  of  Death,  — 
To  the  mist-covered  Lake  of  Avernus, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  kingdom  of  Death. 

And  there,  while  I  shivered  and  waited, 
I  talked  with  the  souls  of  the  dead ; 

The  lawless,  the  lone,  and  the  hated. 
Who  broke  from  their  bondage  and  fled. 

Each  word  was  a  burning  eruption, 
Tha£  leaped  from  a  crater  of  flame,  — ' 


272  PUBLIC   AXD   PARLOR   EEADmGS. 

A  red  lava-tide  of  corruption, 
That  out  of  life's  sediment  came 

From  the  scoriae  natures  God  gave  them, 
Compounded  of  glory  and  shame. 

"  Aboard  !  "  cried  our  pilot  and  leader ; 

Then  "wildly  we  rushed  to  embark, 
And  forth,  in  our  ghostly  Edida, 

We  swept  in  the  silence  and  dark. 
0  God  !  on  that  black  Lake  Avernus, 

Where  vampires  drink  even  the  breath, 
On  that  terrible  Lake  of  Avernus, 

Leading  down  to  the  whirlpool  of  death  ! 

It  was  there  the  Eumenides  found  us, 

In  sight  of  no  shelter  or  shore, 
They  lashed  up  the  white  waves  around  us,  - 

We  sank  in  the  waters'  wild  roar. 
But  not  to  the  regions  infernal, 

Through  billows  of  sulphurous  flame. 
But  unto  the  city  eternal, 

The  home  of  the  blest,  we  came. 

To  the  gate  of  the  beautiful  city, 

All  fainting  and  weary,  we  pressed  : 
"  0  Heart  of  the  Holy,  take  pity, 

.  And  welcome  us  home  to  our  rest ! 
Pursued  by  the  Fates  and  the  Furies, 

In  danger  and  darkness  we  fled ; 
From  the  pitiless  Fates  and  the  Furies, 

Through  the  desolate  realms  of  the  dead." 


^e' 


Like  the  song  of  a  bird  that  yet  lingers. 
Like  the  wind-harp  by  ^olus  blown, 

As  if  touched  by  the  lightest  of  fingers. 
Wide  open  the  portals  were  thrown. 


THE   KINGDOM.  273 

And  there,  in  a  rtiTstical  splendor, 

Stood  a  golden-haired,  aznre-eyed  child ; 
"With  a  look  that  was  touchhig  and  tender 

She  stretched  forth  her  white  hand  and  smiled. 
"  Ay,  welcome  !  thrice  welcome,  poor  mortals  1 

0,  why  do  you  linger  and  wait  1 
Come  fearlessly  in  at  these  portals. 

No  warder  keeps  watch  at  the  gate." 

"  Gloria  Deo  !     Te  Deum  laudamus  !  " 

Exclaimed  a  pi-oud  prelate,  "  I  'm  safe  into  heaven ! 
By  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  the  martyrs  who  claim  us, 

My  soul  has  been  purchased,  my  sins  are  forgiven  ; 
I  tread  where  the  saints  and  the  martyrs  have  trod,    • 
Lead  on,  thou  fau-  child,  to  the  temple  of  God  !  " 

The  child  stood  in  silence  and  wondered, 

And  bowed  down  her  beautiful  head. 

And  even  as  fragrance  is  shed 
By  the  lily  the  waves  have  swept  under. 

She  meekly  and  tenderly  said  : 
"  In  vain  do  you  seek  to  behold  Him  ; 

He  dwells  in  no  temple  apart ; 
The  height  of  the  heavens  cannot  hold  him. 

And  yet  he  is  here  in  my  heart,  — 
He  is  here,  and  he  will  not  depart."    • 

Then  forth  from  the  mystical  splendor. 

The  scintillant,  crystalline  light, 
Gleamed  faces  more  touching  and  tender 

Than  ever  had  greeted  our  sight. 
And  they  sang,  "  Welcome  home  to  this  kingdom, 

Ye  earth-born  and  serpent-beguiled  ! 
The  Lord  is  the  light  of  this  kingdom. 

And  his  temple  the  heart  of  a  child  !  " 

12*  » 


274  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COSSACK   TO   HIS   HORSE.— 

Beranger. 

Translated  by  "  Father  Prout  "  (Rev.  Francis  Mahony). 

COME,  arouse  thee  up,  my  gallant  horse,  and  bear  thy 
rider  on  ! 
The  comrade  thou,  and  the  friend,  I  trow,  of  the  dweller  on 

the  Don. 
Pillage  and  Death  have  spread  their  wings  !  't  is  the  hour  to 

hie  thee  forth, 
And  with  thy  hoofs  an  echo  wake  to  the  trumpets   of  the 

North! 
Nor  gems  nor  gold  do  men  behold  upon  thy  saddle-tree  ; 
But  earth  aflbrds  the  wealth  of  lords  for  thy  master  and  for 

thee. 
Then  fiercely  neigh,  my  charger  gray  !  —  thy  chest  is  proud 

and  ample  ! 
Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France,  and  the  pride 

of  her  heroes  trample  ! 

Europe  is  weak,  —  she  hath  grown  old,  —  her  bulwarks  are 

laid  low ; 
She  is  loath  to  hear  the  blast  of  war,  —  she  shrinketh  from  a 

foe! 
Come,  in  our  turn,  let  us  sojourn  in  her   goodly  haunts  of 

joy-  — 

In  the   pillared  porch  to   wave  the  torch,   and  her   palaces 

destroy  ! 
Proud  as  when  first  thou  slakedst  thy  thirst  in  the  flow  of 

conquered  Seine, 
Aye,  shalt  thou  lave,  within  that  wave,  thy  blood-red  flanks 

again. 
Then  fiercely  neigh,  my  gallant  gi-ay  !  —  thy  chest  is  strong 

and  ample ! 
Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France,  and  the  pride 

of  her  heroes  trample  ! 


THE.  SONG   OF   THE   COSSACK   TO   HIS   HORSE.        275 

Kings  are  beleaguered  on  their  thrones  by  their  own  vassal 

crew  ; 
And  iu  their  den  quake  noblemen,  and  priests  are  bearded  too  ; 
And  loud  they  yelp  for  the  Cossacks'  help  to  keep  their  bonds- 
men down, 
And  they  think  it  meet,  while  they  kiss  our  feet,  to  wear  a 

tyrant's  crown  ! 
The  sceptre  now  to  my  lance  shall  bow,  and  the   crosier  and 

the  cross 
Shall  bend  alike,  when  I  lift  my  pike,  and  aloft  that  sceptre 

toss ! 
Then  proudly  neigh,  my  gallant  gray  !  —  thy  chest  is  broad 

and  ample  ! 
Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France,  and  the  pride 

of  her  heroes  trample  ! 

In  a  night  of  storm  I  have  seen  a  form  !  —  and  the  figure  was 

a  GIANT,      . . 

And  his  eye  was  bent  on  the  Cossack's  tent,  and  his  look  was 

all  defiant ; 
Kingly  his  crest,  —  and  towards  the  West  with  his  battle-axe 

he  pointed  ; 
And  the  "  foi-m  "  I  saw  was  Attila  !  of  this  earth  the  scourge 

anointed. 
From  the  Cossacks'  camp  let  the  horseman's  tramp  the  coming 

crash  announce; 
Let  the  vulture  whet  his  beak  sharp  set,  on  the  carrion  field 

to  pounce ; 
And   proudly   neigh,    my   charger  gray  !  —  0,  thy   chest  is 

broad  and  ample ! 
Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France,  and  the  pride 

of  her  heroes  trample  ! 

What  boots  old  Europe's  boasted  fame,  on  which  she  builds 

reliance, 
When  the  North  shall  launch  its  nvalanche  on  her  works  of 

art  and  science  ] 


276  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Hath  she  not  wept  her  cities  swept  by  our  hordes  of  tramp- 

lino;  stallions, 
And  tower  and  arch  crushed  in  the  march  of  our  barbarous 

battalions  1 
Can  we  not  wield  our  fathers'  shield  1  the  same  war-hatchet 

handle  ] 
Do  our  blades  want  length,  or  the  reapers  strength,  for  the 

harvest  of  the  Vandal  ? 
Then  proudly  neigh,  my  gallant  gray,  for  thy  chest  is  strong 

and  ample ; 
And  thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France,  and  the 

pride  of  her  heroes  trample  ! 


I 


DOROTHY  IN   THE   GARRET. —J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

IN  the  low-raftered  gaiTct,  stooping 
Carefully  over  the  creaking  boards, 
Old  Maid  Dorothy  goes  a-groping 

Among  its  dusty  and  cobwebbed  hoards ; 
Seeking  some  bundle  of  patches,  hid 

Far  under  the  eaves,  or  bunch  of  sage, 
Or  satchel  hung  on  its  nail,  amid 
The  heirlooms  of  a  bygone  age. 

There  is  the  ancient  family  chest, 

There  the  ancestral  cards  and  hatchel ; 
Dorothy,  sighing,  sinks  down  to  rest. 

Forgetful  of  patches,  sage,  and  satchek 
Ghosts  of  faces  peer  from  the  gloom 

Of  the  chimney,  where,  with  swifts  and  reel, 
And  the  long-disused,  dismantled  loom, 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  spinning-wheel. 

She  sees  it  back  in  the  clean-swept  kitchen, 
A  part  of  her  girlhood's  little  world  ; 


DOROTHY  IN  THE  GARRET.  277 

Her  mother  is  there  by  the  window,  stitching  ; 

Spindle  buzzes,  and  reel  is  whirled 
With  many  a  click  :  on  her  little  stool 

She  sits,  a  child,  by  the  open  door. 
Watching,  and  dabbling  her  feet  in  the  pool 

Of  sunshine  spilled  on  the  gilded  floor. 

Her  sisters  are  spinning  all  day  long ; 

To  her  wakening  sense  the  first  sweet  warning 
Of  daylight  come  is  the  cheerful  song 

To  the  hum  of  the  wheel  in  the  early  morning. 
Benjie,  the  gentle,  red-cheeked  boy. 

On  his  way  to  school,  peeps  in  at  the  gate ; 
In  neat  white  pinafore,  pleased  and  coy, 

She  reaches  a  hand  to  her  bashful  mate  ; 

And  under  the  elms,  a  prattling  pair, 

Together  they  go,  thi'ough  glimmer  and  gloom  :  — 
It  all  comes  back  ta'her,  dreaming  there 

In  the  low-raftered  garret-room  ; 
The  hum  of  the  wheel,  and  the  summer  weather,  ' 

The  heai't's  first  trouble,  and  love's  beginning, 
Are  all  in  her  memory  linked  together ; 

And  now  it  is  she  herself  that  is  spinning. 

With  the  bloom  of  youth  on  cheek  and  lip, 

Turning  the  spokes  with  the  flashing  pin, 
Twisting  the  thread  from  the  spindle-tip. 

Stretching  it  out  and  winding  it  in, 
To  and  fro,  with  a  blithesome  tread. 

Singing  she  goes,  and  her  heart  is  full, 
And  many  a  long-drawn  golden  thread 

Of  fancy  is  spun  with  the  shining  wool. 

Her  father  sits  in  his  favorite  place, 

Puffing  his  pipe  by  the  chimney-side; 
Through  curling  clouds  his  kindly  face 

Glows  upon  her  with  love  and  pride. 


278  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

Lulled  by  the  wheel,  in  the  old  arm-chair 

Her  mother  is  musing,  cat  in  lap, 
With  beaxitiful  drooping  head,  and  hair 

Whitening  under  her  snow-white  cap. 

One  by  one,  to  the  grave,  to  the  bridal. 

They  have  followed  her  sisters  from  the  door ; 
Now  they  are  old,  and  she  is  their  idol  :  — 

It  all  comes  back  on  her  heart  once  more. 
In  the  autumn  dusk  the  hearth  gleams  brightly, . 

The  wheel  is  set  by  the  shadowy  wall,  — 
A  hand  at  the  latch,  —  't  is  lifted  lightly, 

And  in  walks  Benjie,  manly  and  tall. 

His  chair  is  placed ;  the  old  man  tips 

The  pitcher,  and  brings  his  choicest  fruit ; 
Benjie  basks  in  the  blaze,  and  sips. 

And  tells  his  story,  and  joints  his  flute  : 
0,  sweet  the  tunes,  the  talk,  the  laughter  ! 

They  fill  the  hour  with  a  glowing  tide  ; 
But  sweeter  the  still,  deep  moments  after, 

When  she  is  alone  by  Benjie's  side. 

But  once  with  angry  words  they  part : 

0,  then  the  weary,  weary  days  ! 
Ever  with  restless,  wretched  heart. 

Plying  her  task,  she  turns  to  gaze 
Far  up  the  road  ;  and  early  and  late 

She  harks  for  a  footstep  at  the  door, 
And  starts  at  the  gust  that  swings  the  gate, 

And  prays  for  Benjie,  who  comes  no  more. 

Her  fault  1     0  Benjie,  and  could  you  steel 

Your  thoughts  toward  one  wdio  loved  you  sol- 

Solace  she  seeks  in  the  wdiirling  wheel, 
In  duty  and  love  that  lighten  woe ; 

Striving  with  labor,  not  in  vain, 

To  drive  away  the  dull  day's  dreariness,  — 


1 


DOROTHY  IN  THE  GARRET.  279 

Blessing  the  toil  that  blunts  the  pain 

Of  a  deeper  grief  in  the  body's  weariness. 

Proud  and  petted  and  spoiled  was  she  : 

A  word,  and  all  her  life  is  changed  ! 
His  wavering  love  too  easily 

In  the  great,  gay  city  gi-ows  estranged  : 
One  year  :  she  sits  in  the  old  church  pew ; 

A  rustle,  a  murmur,  —  0  Dorothy  !  hide 
Your  face  and  shut  from  your  soul  the  view ! 

'T  is  Benjie  leading  a  white-veiled  bride  ! 

Now  father  and  mother  have  long  been  dead, 

And  the  bride  sleeps  vuider  a  churchyard  stone, 
And  a  bent  old  man  with  grizzled  head 

Walks  up  the  long  dim  aisle  alone. 
Years  blur  to  a  mist  ;  and  Dorothy 

Sits  doubting  betwixt  the  ghost  she  seems 
And  the  phantom  of  youth,  more  real  than  she, 

That  meets  her  there  in  that  haunt  of  dreams. 

Bright  young  Dorothy,  idolized  daughter, 

Sought  by  many  a  youthful  adorer, 
Life,  like  a  new  risen-dawn  on  the  water, 

Shining  an  endless  vista  before  her  ! 
Old  Maid  Dorothy,  wrinkled  and  gray. 

Groping  under  the  farm-house  eaves,  — 
And  life  is  a  brief  November  day 

That  sets  on  a  world  of  withered  leaves  ! 

Yet  faithfulness  in  the  hiimblest  part 

Is  better  at  last  than  proud  success. 
And  patience  and  love  in  a  chastened  heart 

Are  peai'ls  more  precious  than  happiness ; 
And  in  that  morning  when  she  shall  wake 

To  the  spring-time  freshness  of  youth  again, 
All  trouble  will  seem  but  a  flying  flake. 

And  life-long  sorrow  a  breath  on  the  pane. 


280         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


RAVENSWOOD   AND   LUCY  ASHTON.  —  Scott. 

Lucy  Ashton  has  solemnly  plighted  her  faith  to  Kavenswood,  a  poor 
but  high-spirited  nobleman  ;  and  as  a  mutual  pledge  they  have  broken 
a  piece  of  gold  together.  Lucy's  mother,  finding  a  rich  suitor  for  her 
daughter,  urges  her  to  write  a  letter  of  dismissal  to  Ravenswood,  and 
consent  to  a  union  with  Bucklaw.  Lucy,  driven  to  despair,  at  length 
yields  to  the  will  of  her  imperious  mother,  after  many  threats  and  en- 
treaties. The  marriage  day  has  come.  The  marriage  contract  is  to  be 
signed.  Bucklaw,  the  bridegroom,  Craigengelt,  his  parasite,  Bide-the- 
bent,  the  clergyman,  Lucy's  parents  and  brother  are  present. 

THE  business  of  the  day  now  went  forward ;  Sir  William 
Ashton  signed  the  contract  with  legal  solemnity  and 
precision ;  his  son,  with  militaiy  nonchalance ;  and  Bucklaw, 
having  subscribed  as  rapidly  as  Craigengelt  could  manage  to 
turn  the  leaves,  concluded  by  wiping  his  pen  on  that  worthy's 
new  laced  cravat. 

It  was  now  Miss  Ashton's  turn  to  sign  the  writings,  and  she 
was  guided  by  her  watchful  mother  to  the  table  for  that  pur- 
pose. At  her  first  attempt,  she  began  to  write  with  a  dry 
pen,  and  when  the  circumstance  was  pointed  out,  seemed 
unable,  after  several  attempts,  to  dip  it  in  the  massive  silver 
ink-standish,  which  stood  full  before  her.  Lady  Ashton's 
vigilance  hastened  to  supply  the  deficiency.  I  have  myself 
seen  the  fatal  deed,  and  in  the  distinct  characters  in  w^hich 
the  name  of  Lucy  Ashton  is  traced  on  each  page,  there  is 
only  a  very  slight  tremulous  irregularity,  indicative  of  her 
state  of.  mind  at  the  time  of  the  subscription.  But  the  last 
signature  is  incomplete,  defaced,  and  blotted  ;  for,  while  her 
hand  was  employed  in  tracing  it,  a  hasty  tramp  of  a  horse 
was  heard  at  the  gate,  succeeded  by  a  step  in  the  outer  gal- 
lery, and  a  voice,  which,  in  a  commanding  tone,  bore  down 
the  opposition  of  the  menials.  The  pen  dropped  from  Lucy's 
fingers,  as  she  exclaimed  with  a  faint  shriek,  "  He  is  come,  — • 
he  is  come  !  " 

Hardly  had  Miss  Ashton  dropped  the  pen,  when  the  door 
of  the  apartment  flew  open,  and  the  Master  of  Ravenswood 
entered  the  apartment. 


RAVENSWOOD   AND   LUCY   ASHTON.  281 

Lockhai'd  and  another  domestic,  who  had  in  vain  attempted 
to  oppose  his  passage  through  the  gallery,  or  antechamber, 
were  seen  standing  on  the  tlireshold  transfixed  with  surprise, 
which  was  instantly  communicated  to  the  whole  party  in  the 
state-room.  That  of  Colonel  Douglas  Ashton  was  mingled 
with  resentment ;  that  of  Bucklaw,  with  haughty  and  aiFected 
indifference ;  the  rest,  even  Lady  Ashton  herself,  showed 
signs  of  fear,  and  Lucy  seemed  stiffened  to  stone  by  this 
unexpected  apparition.  Apparition  it  might  well  be  termed, 
for  Ravenswood  had  more  the  appearance  of  one  returned 
from  the  dead  than  of  a  living  visitor. 

He  planted  himself  full  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment, 
opposite  to  the  table  at  which  Lucy  was  seated,  on  whom,  as 
if  she  had  been  alone  in  the  chamber,  he  bent  his  eyes  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  deep  grief  and  deliberate  indignation. 
His  dark-colored  riding-cloak,  displaced  from  one  shoulder, 
hung  around  one  side  of  his  person  in  the  ample  folds  of  the 
Spanish  mantle.  The  rest  of  his  rich  dress  was  travel-soiled, 
and  deranged  by  hard  riding.  He  had  a  sword  by  his  side, 
and  pistols  in  his  belt.  His  slouched  hat,  which  he  had  not 
removed  at  entrance,  gave  an  additional  gloom  to  his  dark 
features,  which,  wasted  by  sorrow,  and  marked  by  the  ghastly 
look  communicated  by  long  illness,  added  to  a  countenance 
naturall}'  somewhat  stern  and  wild  a  fierce  and  even  savage 
expression.  The  matted  and  dishevelled  locks  of  hair  which 
escaped  from  under  his  hat,  together  with  his  fixed  and 
unmoved  posture,  made  his  head  more  resemV)lo  that  of  a 
marble  bust  than  that  of  a  living  man.  He  said  not  a  single 
word,  and  there  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  company  for  more 
than  two  minutes. 

It  was  broken  by  Lady  Ashton,  who  in  that  space  partly 
recovered  her  natural  audacity.  She  demanded  to  know  the 
cause  of  this  unauthorized  intrusion. 

"  That  is  a  question,  madam,"  said  her  son,  "  which  I  have 
the  best  right  to  ask,  and  I  must  request  of  the  Master 
of  Ravenswood  to  follow  me,  where  he  can  answer  it  at  lei- 
sure." 


282         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Biicklaw  interposed,  saying,  "  No  man  on  earth  should 
usurp  his  previous  right  in  demanding  an  explanation  from 
the  blaster.  —  Craigengelt,"  he  added,  in  an  undertone,  "  why 
do  you  stand  staring  as  if  you  saw  a  ghost  1  fetch  me  my 
sword  from  the  gallery." 

"  I  will  relinquish  to  none,"  said  Colonel  Ashton,  "  my  right 
of  calling  to  account  the  man  who  has  offered  this  unpar- 
alleled affront  to  my  family."  .... 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  Ravenswood,  "let  him  who  really 
seeks  danger  take  the  fitting  time  when  it  is  to  be  found  ; 
my  mission  here  will  be  shortly  accomplished.  Is  that 
your  handwriting,  madam  V  he  added  in  a  softer  tone, 
extending  towards  Miss  Ashton  her  last  letter. 

A  faltering  "  Yes,"  seemed  rather  to  escajpe  from  her  lips, 
than  to  be  uttered  as  a  voluntary  answer. 

"  And  is  this  also  your  handwriting  1 "  extending  towards 
her  the  mutual  engagement. 

Lucy  remained  silent.  Terror,  and  a  yet  stronger  and 
more  confused  feeling,  so  utterly  disturbed  her  understanding, 
that  she  probably  scarcely  comprehended  the  question  that 
was  put  to  her. 

"If  you  design,"  said  Sir  William  Ashton,  "to  found  any 
legal  claim  on  that  paper,  sir,  do  not  expect  to  receive  any 
answer  to  an  extrajudicial  question." 

"  Sir  William  Ashton,  "  said  Ravenswood,  "  I  pray  you,  and 
all  who  hear  me,  that  you  will  not  mistake  my  purpose.  If 
this  young  lady,  of  her  own  free  will,  desires  the  restoration 
of  this  contract,  as  her  letter  would  seem  to  imply,  there 
is  not  a  withered  leaf  which  this  autumn  wind  strews  on  the 
heath,  that  is  more  valueless  in  my  eyes.  But  I  must  and 
will  hear  the  truth  from  her  own  mouth,  —  without  this  satis- 
faction I  will  not  leave  this  spot.  Murder  me  by  numbers 
you  possibly  may  ;  but  T  am  an  armed  man,  I  am  a  desper- 
ate man,  and  I  will  not  die  without  ample  vengeance. 
This  is  my  resolution,  take  it  as  you  may.  I  will  hear  her 
determination  from  her  own  mouth  ;  from  her  own  mouth, 
alone,  and  without  witnesses,  will  I  hear  it.     Now,  choose." 


RAVENSWOOD   AND   LUCY   ASHTON.  283 

he  said,  drawing  his  sword  with  the  right  hand,  and  with  the 
left,  by  the  same  motion,  taking  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
cocking  it,  but  turning  the  point  of  one  weapon  and  the 
muzzle  of  the  other  to  the  ground, — "choose  if  you  will 
have  this  hall  floated  with  blood,  or  if  you  will  grant  me  the 
decisive  interview  with  my  affianced  bride  which  the  laws  of 
God  and  the  country  alike  entitle  me  to  demand." 

All  i-ecoiled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  the  determined 
action  by  which  it  was  accompanied  ;  for  the  ecstasy  of  real 
desperation  seldom  fails  to  overpower  the  less  energetic  pas- 
sions  by  which  it  may  be  opposed.  The  clergyman  was  the 
first  to  speak.  "  In  the  name  of  God,"  he  said,  "  receive  an 
overture  of  peace  from  the  meanest  of  his  servants.  What 
this  honorable  person  demands,  albeit  it  is  urged  with  over- 
violence,  hath  yet  in  it  something  of  reason.  Let  him  hear 
from  Miss  Lucy's  own  lips  that  she  hath  dutifully  acceded  to 
the  will  of  her  parents,  and  repenteth  her  of  her  covenant 
with  him  ;  and  when  he  is  assured  of  this,  he  will  depart  in 
peace  unto  his  own  dwelling,  and  cumber  us  no  more.  Alas  ! 
the  workings  of  the  ancient  Adam  are  strong  even  in  the 
regenerate,  —  surely  we  should  have  long-suffering  with 
those  who,  being  yet  in  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  bond  of 
iniquity,  are  swept  forward  by  the  uncontrollable  current  of 
•worldly  passion.  Let,  then,  the  Master  of  Ravenswood  have 
the  interview  on  which  he  insisteth ;  it  can  but  be  as  a  pass- 
ing pang  to  this  honorable  maiden,  since  her  faith  is  now  irrev- 
ocably pledged  to  the  choice  of  her  parents.  Let  it,  I  say, 
be  thus  ;  it  belongeth  to  my  functions  to  entreat  your  houoi-'s 
compliance  with  this  healing  overture." 

"  Never,"  answered  Lady  Ashton,  whose  rage  had  now  over- 
come her  first  surprise  and  terror,  —  "  never  shall  this  man 
speak  in  private  with  my  daughter,  the  affianced  bride  of 
another  !  Pass  from  this  room  who  will,  I  remain  here.  I 
fear  neither  his  violence  nor  his  weapons,  though  some,"  she 
said,  glancing  a  look  towards  Colonel  Ashton,  "  who  bear  my 
name,  appear  more  moved  by  them." 

"For  God's  sake,  madam,"   answered  the  worthy  divino. 


284         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

"add  not  fuel  to  firebrands.  The  Master  of  Ravenswood 
cannot,  I  am  sure,  object  to  your  presence,  the  young  lady's 
state  of  health  being  considered,  and  your  maternal  duty.  I 
myself  will  also  tarry ;  peradventure  my  gray  hairs  may  turn 
away  wrath." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Ravenswood,  "  and 
Lady  Ashton  is  also  welcome  to  remain,  if  she  shall  think 
proper ;  but  let  all  others  depart."  .... 

Ravenswood  sheathed  his  sword,  uncocked  and  returned 
his  pistol  to  his  belt,  walked  deliberately  to  the  door  of 
the  apartment,  which  he  bolted,  returned,  raised  his  hat  from 
his  forehead,  and,  gazing  upon  Lucy  with  eyes  in  which  an 
expression  of  sorrow  overcame  their  late  fierceness,  spread  his 
dishevelled  locks  back  from  his  face,  and  said,  "  Do  you  know 
me,  Miss  Ashton  1  I  am  still  Edgar  Ravenswood."  She 
was  silent,  and  he  went  on  with  increasing  vehemence,  "  I 
am  still  that  Edgar  Ravenswood,  who,  for  your  affection, 
renounced  the  dear  ties  by  which  injured  honor  bound  him  to 
seek  vengeance.  I  am  that  Ravenswood,  who,  for  yoiu*  sake, 
forgave,  nay,  clasped  hands  in  friendship  with  the  oppressor 
and  pillager  of  his  house,  —  the  traducer  and  murderer  of  his 
father." 

*'  My  daughter,"  answered  Lady  Ashton,  interrupting  him, 
"  has  no  occasion  to  dispute  the  identity  q(  your  person ;  the 
venom  of  your  present  language  is  sufficient  to  remind  her 
that  she  speaks  with  the  mortal  enemy  of  her  fether." 

"  I  pray  you  to  be  patient,  madam,"  answered  Ravenswood ; 
"  my  answer  must  come  from  her  own  lips.  Once  more. 
Miss  Lucy  Ashton,  I  am  that  Ravenswood  to  whom  you 
granted  the  solemn  engagement,  which  you  now  desire  to 
retract  and  cancel." 

Lucy's  bloodless  lips  could  only  falter  out  the  words,  "  It 
was  my  mother." 

"  She  speaks  truly,"  said  Lady  Ashton  ;  "  it  toas  I,  who, 
authorized  alike  by  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  advised  her, 
and  concurred  with  her,  to  set  aside  an  unhappy  and  precipi- 
tate engagement,  and  to  annul  it  by  the  authority  of  Scripture 
itself."  .... 


RAVENS  WOOD   AND   LUCY   ASHTON.  285 

"  And  is  this  all  1 "  said  Ravenswood,  looking  at  Lucy ; 
"are  vou  willing  to  bartex-  sworn  faith,  the  exercise  of  free- 
will, and  the  feelings  of  mutual  affection,  to  this  wretched 
hypocritical  sophistry  ? " 

"  Hear  him  ! "  said  Lady  Ashton,  looking  at  the  clergy- 
man, —  "  hear  the  blasphemer !  " 

"May  God  forgive  him,"  said  Bide-the-bent,  "and  enlighten 
his  ignorance ! " 

"  Hear  what  I  have  sacrificed  for  you,"  said  Ravenswood, 
still  addressing  Lucy,  "  ere  you  sanction  what  has  been  done 
in  your  name.  The  honor  of  an  ancient  family,  the  urgent 
advice  of  my  best  friends,  have  been  in  vain  used  to  sway  my 
resolution ;  neither  the  arguments  of  reason  nor  the  portents 
of  superstition  have  shaken  my  fidelity.  The  very  dead 
have  arisen  to  warn  me,  and  their  warning  has  been  despised. 
Are  you  prepared  to  pierce  my  heart  for  its  fidelity  with  the 
very  weapon  which  my  rash  confidence  intrusted  to  your 
grasp  1 " 

"Master  of  Ravenswood,"  said  Lady  Ashton,  "you  have 
asked  what  questions  you  thought  fit.  You  see  the  total 
incapacity  of  my  daughter  to  answer  you.  But  I  will  reply 
for  her,  and  in  a  manner  which  you  cannot  dispute.  You 
desire  to  know  whether  Lucy  Ashton,  of  her  own  free  will, 
desires  to  annul  the  engagement  into  which  she  has  been 
trepanned.  You  have  her  letter  under  her  own  hand,  de- 
manding the  surrender  of  it ;  and,  in  yet  more  full  evidence 
of  her  purpose,  here  is  the  contract  which  she  has  this 
morning  subscribed,  in  presence  of  this  reverend  gentleman, 
with  Mr.  Hayston  of  Bucklaw." 

Ravenswogd  gazed  upon  the  deed,  as  if  petrified.  "  And  it 
was  without  fraud  or  compulsion,"  said  he,  looking  towards 
the  clergyman,  "that  Miss  Ashton  subscribed  this  parch- 
ment 1 " 

"  I  vouch  it  upon  my  sacred  character." 

"  This  is  indeed,  madam,  an  undeniable  piece  of  evidence," 
said  Ravenswood,  sternly  ;  "  and  it  will  be  equally  unneces- 
sary  and    dishonorable    to   waste    another   word   in   useless 


286         rUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

remonstrance  or  reproach.  There,  madam,"  he  said,  laying 
down  before  Lucy  the  signed  paper  and  the  broken  piece  of 
gold,  —  "there  are  the  evidences  of  your  first  engagement; 
may  you  be  more  faithful  to  that  which  you  have  just 
formed !  I  will  trouble  you  to  return  the  corresponding 
tokens  of  my  ill-placed  confidence,  —  I  ought  rather  to  say, 
of  my  egregious  folly." 

Lucy  returned  the  scornful  glance  of  her  lover  with  a  gaze 
from  which  perception  seemed  to  have  been  banished ;  yet 
she  seemed  pai'tly  to  have  understood  his  meaning,  for  she 
raised  her  hands  as  if  to  undo  a  blue  ribbon  which  she  wore 
around  her  neck.  She  was  unable  to  accomplish  her  purpose, 
but  Lady  Ashton  cut  the  ribbon  asunder,  and  detached  the 
broken  jjiece  of  gold  which  Miss  Ashton  had  till  then  worn 
concealed  in  her  bosom ;  the  written  coxmterpart  of  the 
lovers'  eno^aofement  she  for  some  time  had  had  in  her  own 
possession.  With  a  haughty  courtesy,  she  delivered  both  to 
Ravenswood,  who  was  much  softened  when  he  took  the  piece 
of  gold. 

"And  she  could  wear  it  thus,"  he  said,  speaking  to  him- 
self, —  "  could  wear  it  in  her  very  bosom,  —  could  wear  it 
next  to  her  heart  — even  when  —  But  complaint  avails  not," 
he  said,  dashing  from  his  eye.  the  tear  which  had  gathered  in 
it,  and  resuming  the  stern  composure  of  his  manner.  He 
strode  to  the  chimney,  and  threw  into  the  fire  the  paper  and 
piece  of  gold,  stamping  upon  the  coals  with  the  heel  of  his 
boot,  as  if  to  insure  their  destruction.  "  I  will  be  no  longer," 
he  then  said,  "  an  intruder  here.  Your  evil  wishes,  and 
your  worse  oifices.  Lady  Ashton,  I  will  only  return,  by  hoping 
these  will  be  your  last  machinations  against  your  daughter's 
honor  and  happiness.  And  to  you,  madam,"  he  said,  address- 
ing Lucy,  "  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,  except  to  pray  to 
God  that  you  may  not  become  a  world's  wonder  for  this  act 
of  wilful  and  deliberate  perjury."  Having  uttered  these 
words,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  the  apartment. 


THE   SILENT   TOWER   OF   BOTTREAUX.  287 


THE   SILENT   TOWER   OF   BOTTREAUX. 

Bottreaux  is  the  old  name  for  Boscastle.  The  church  at  Bottreaux, 
in  Cornwall,  has  no  bells,  while  the  neighboring  tower  of  Tintagel  con- 
tains a  fine  peal  of  six.  It  is  said  that  a  peal  of  bells  for  Bottreaux  was 
once  cast  at  a  foundry  on  the  Continent,  and  that  the  vessel  which  was 
bringing  them  went  down  within  sight  of  the  church-tower. 

TINTAGEL  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide, 
The  boy  leans  on  bis  vessel's  side, 
He  hears  that  sound,  while  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the  wild  orphan  of  the  foam. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 
Thus  said  their  pealing  chime  ; 
"  Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

But  why  are  Bottreaux's  echoes  still  1 

Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill, 

Yet  the  strange  chough  that  home  hath  found, 

The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 

Should  be  her  answering  chime ; 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last," 

Should  echo  on  the  blast. 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea, 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stored, 
The  merry  Bottreaux  bells  on  boai'd. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 

Rung  out  Tintagel  chime  ; 

"  Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

The  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 
Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  spells. 


288  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

"  Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow,  he  cried, 
"  We  make  the  shore  with  evening's  tide." 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 
It -was  his  marriage  chime; 
"  Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

''  Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land, 
But  thank  at  sea  the  steersman's  hand  " ; 
The  captain's  voice  rose  o'er  the  gale, 
"  Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail." 
"Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 
Sad  grew  the  boding  chime ; 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last," 
Boomed  heavy  on  the  blast. 

Uprose  that  sea  as  if  it  heard 
The  mighty  Master's  signal  word. 
What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip  1 
The  death  groans  of  his  sinking  ship. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 
Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime  ; 
"  Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 
Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell, 
When  gray  hairs  o'er  his  forehead  fell. 
While  those  around  would  hear  and  weep, 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 
He  read  his  native  chime ; 
"  Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

Still,  when  the  storm  of  Bottreaux's  waves 
Is  waking  in  his  weedy  caves. 


THE   HIKELIXG   SWISS  REGIMENT.  289 

Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide, 
Peal  their  deep  tones  beneath  the  tide. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time," 

Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime  ; 
"  Storm,  whirlwind,  billows  past, 

Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 


THE  HIRELING  SWISS  REGIMENT.  —  Victor  Hugo. 

WHEN  the  regiment  of  the  Halberdiers  is  proudly  march- 
ing  by. 
The  eagle  of  the  mountains  screams  from  out  his  stormy  sky ; 
Who  speaketh  to  the  precipice,  and  to  the  chasm  sheer ; 
Who  hovers  o'er  the  throne  of  kings,  and  bids  the  caitiffs 

fear. 
King  of  the  peak  and  glacier ;  king  of  the  cold,  white  scalps,  — 
He  lifts  his  head,  at  that  close  tread,  the  eagle  of  the  Alps. 

0  shame,  those  men  that  march  below !     0  ignominy  dire  ! 
Are  the  sons  of  my  free  mountains  sold  for  imperial  hire] 
Ah,  the  vilest  in  the  dungeon  !  —  Ah,  the  slave  upon  the 

seas,  — 
Is  great,  is  pure,  is  glorious,  is  grand  compared  with  these, 
Who,  born  amid  my  holy  rocks,  in  solemn  placed  high, 
Where  the  tall  pines  bend  like  rushes  when  the  storm  goes 

sweeping  b}'. 
Yet  give  the  strength  of  foot  they  learned  by  perilous  path 

and  flood, 
And  from  their  blue-eyed  mothers  won,  the  old,  mysterious 

blood  ; 
The   daring   that   the   good   south-wind   into  their   nostrils 

blew, 
And  the  proud  swelling  of  the  heart  with  each  pure  breath 

they  drew  ; 

13  B 


290  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

The  graces  of  the  mountain  glens,  with  flowers  in  summer 

gay; 

And  all  the  glory  of  the  hills,  to  earn  a  lackey's  pay. 

Their  country  free  and  joyous,  —  she  of  the  rugged  sides,  — 
She  of  the  rough  peaks  arrogant,  whereon  the  tempest  rides ; 
Mother  of  the  unconquered  thought  and  of  the  savage  form, 
Who  brings  out  of  her  sturdy  heart  the  hero  and  the  storm ; 
Who  giveth  freedom  unto  man,  and  life  unto  the  beast ; 
Who  hears  her  silver  torrents  ring  like  joy-bells  at  a  f<3ast ; 
Who   hath   her  caves   for   palaces,   and  where   her   chalets 

stand,  — 
The  proud  old  archer  of  Altorf,  with  his  good  bow  in  his 

band; — 
Is  she  to  suckle  jailers?  shall  shame  and  glory  rest, 
Amid  her  lakes  and  mountains,  like  twins  upon  her  breast? 
Shall  the  two-headed  eagle,  marked  with  her  double  blow, 
Drink  of  her  milk  through  all  those  hearts  whose  blood  he 

bids  to  flow  ? 

Say  was  it  pomp  ye  needed,  and  all  the  proud  array 

Of  courtliness  and  high  parade  upon  a  gala  day  1 

Look  up ;  have  not  my  valleys,  their  torrents  white  with 

foam, 
Their  lines  of  silver  bullion  on  the  blue  hills  of  home  1 
Doth  not  sweet  May  embroider  my  rocks  with  pearls  and 

flowers  1 
Her  fingers  trace  a  richer  lace  than  yours  in  all  my  bowers, 
Are  not  my  old  peaks  gilded  when  the  sun  rises  proud. 
And  each  one  shakes  a  white  mist  plume  out  of  the  thunder- 
cloud 1 
0  neighbors   of  the   golden   sky,  —  sons   of  the    mountain 

sod,  — 
Why  wear  a  base  king's  colors  for  the  livery  of  God  1 

O  shame  !  despair  !  to  see  my  Alps  their  giant  shadows  fling 
Into  the  very  waiting-room  of  tyrant  and  of  king  ! 


THE   AVENGING   CHILDE.  291 

0  thou  deep  heaven,  unsullied  yet,  into  thy  gulfs  sublime, 
Up  azure  tracts  of  fiamiuo;  light,  let  my  free  pinion  climb  ; 
Till  from  my  sight,  in  that  clear  light,  earth  and  her  crimes 

be  gone,  — 
The  men  who  act  the  evil  deeds,  the  caitiffs  who  look  on  ; 
Far,  far  into  that  space  immense,  beyond  the  vast  white  veil. 
Where  distant  stars  come  out  and  shine,  and  the  gi-eat  sun 

grows  pale. 


THE  AVENGING  CHILDE.  —  Lockhart. 

HURRAH !    hurrah!    avoid   the   way  of  the    Avenging 
Childe  ; 
His  horse  is  swift  as  sands  that  drift,  —  an  Arab  of  the  wild  ; 
His  gown  is  twisted  round  his  arm,  —  a  ghastly  cheek  he 

wears  ; 
And  in  his  hand,  for  deadly  harm,  a  hunting-knife  he  bears. 

Avoid  that  knife  in  battle  strife,  that  weapon  short  and  thin  ; 
The  dragon's  gore  hath   bathed   it  o'er,    seven  times  't  was 

steeped  therein  ; 
Seven  times  the  smith  hath  proved   its   pith,  —  it  cuts   a 

coulter  through  ; 
In  France  the  blade  was  fashioned,  from  Spain  the  shaft  it 

drew. 

He  sharpens  it,  as  he  doth  ride,  upon  his  saddle-bow ; 
He  sharpens  it  on  either  side,  he  makes  the  steel  to  glow. 
He  rides  to  find  Don  Quadros,  that  false  and  faitour  ''^  knight ; 
His  glance  of  ire  is  hot  as  fire,  although  his  cheek  be  white. 

He  found  him  standing  by  the  king,  within  the  judgment- 
hall  ; 
He  rushed  within  the  barons'  ring,  —  he  stood  before  them  all. 

*  Vagabond. 


292  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR  "READINGS. 

Seven  times  he  gazed  and  pondered  if  he  the  deed  should  do  ; 
Eight  times  distraught  he  looked  and  thought,  then  out  his 
dagger  flew. 

He  stabbed  therewith  at  Quadros,  —  tlie  king  did  step  be- 
tween ; 

It  pierced  his  royal  garment  of  purple  wove  with  green. 

He  fell  beneath  the  canopy,  upon  the  tiles  he  lay. 

"  Thou  traitor  keen,  what  dost  thou  mean,  —  thy  king  why 
wouldst  thou  slay  ]  " 

"  Now,  pardon,  pardon,"  cried  the  Childe ;  '^  I  stabbed  not, 

king,  at  thee, 
But  him,  that  caitiff,    blood-defiled,  who  stood  beside  thy 

knee  : 
Eight   brothers  were  we,  —  in  the   land    might  none  more 

loving  be,  — 
They  all  are  slain  by  Quadros'  hand,  —  they  all  are  dead  but 

me. 

"  Good  king,  I  fain  would  wash  the  stain,  —  for  vengeance  is 

my  cry; 
This  murderer  with  sword  and  spear  to  battle  I  defy." 
But  all  took  part  with  Quadros,  except  one  lovely  May,  — 
Except  the  king's  fair  daughter,  none  word  for  him  would 

say. 

She  took  their  hands,  she  led  them  forth   into   the  court 

below ; 
■  She  bade  the  ring  be  guarded,  she  bade  the  trumpet  blow  ; 
From  lofty  place,  for   that   stern   race,   the  signal  she  did 

throw,  — 
"With  truth   and  right   the  Lord  will   fight;   together  let 

them  go." 

The  one  is  up,  the  other  down,  the  hunter's  knife  is  bare  ; 
It  cuts  the  lace  beneath  the  face,  it  cuts  through  beard  and 
hair ; 


FAIR   SUFFERERS.  293 

Right  soon  that  knife  hath  quenched  his  Hfe,  —  the  head  is 

sundered  sheer ; 
Then  gladsome  smiled  the  Avenging  Childe,  and  fixed  it  on 

his  spear. 

But  when  the  king  beholds    him   bring   that   token  of  his 

truth, 
Nor  scorn  nor  wrath  his  bosom  hath,  —  "  Kneel  down,  thou 

noble  youth  ; 
Kneel  down,  kneel  down,  and  kiss  my  crown,  I  am  no  more 

thy  foe  ; 
My  daughter  now  may  pay  the  vow  she  plighted  long  ago." 


B 


FAIR  SUFFERERS. 

Y  fair  sufferers  we  mean  about  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
hundred  of  those  poor  dear  young  ladies,  condemned, 
through  the  accident  of  their  birth,  to  languish  in  silk  and 
satin,  beneath  the  load  of  a  fashionable  existence. 

Ah  !  little  think  the  gay  licentious  paupers,  who  have  no 
plays,  operas,  and  evening  parties  to  be  forced  to  go  to,  and 
no  carriages  to  be  obliged  to  ride  about  in,  of  the  miseries 
■which  are  endured  by  the  daughters  of  affluence ! 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  scarcely  one  of  those  tender 
creatures  can  be  in  a  theatre  or  a  concert-room  ten  minutes 
without  being  seized  with  a  violent  headache,  which,  more 
frequently  than  not,  obliges  her  to  leave  before  the  pei'form- 
ance  is  over,  and  drag  a  brother,  husband,  lover,  or  attentive 
young  man  away  with  her.  If  spared  the  headache,  how 
often  is  she  threatened  v,'ith  a  fainting  fit, — nay,  now  and 
then  seized  with  it,  —  to  the  alarm  and  disturbance  of  her 
company  !  Not  happening  to  feel  faint  exactly,  still  there  is 
a  sensation,  "  a  something,"  as  she  describes  it,  "  she  does  n't 
know  what,"  which  she  is  almost  sure  to  be  troubled  with. 
Unvisited  by  these  afflictions,  nevertheless,  either  the  cold,  or 


294         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOE  EEADINGS. 

the  heat,  or  the  glare  of  the  gas,  or  some  other  source  of 
pain,  oppresses  or  excruciates  her  susceptible  nerves.  .And 
"when  we  take  one  such  young  lady,  and  put  together  all  the 
public  amusements  which  she  must  either  go  to  —  or  die  — 
in  the  course  of  a  season ;  and  when  we  add  up  all  the  head- 
aches and  swoons  and  the  "  somethings-she-does-n't-know- 
what,"  the  shiverings,  biu'nings,  and  other  agonizing  sensa- 
tions which  she  has  undergone  by  the  end  of  it,  the  result  is 
an  aggregate  of  torture  truly  frightful  to  contemplate. 

Suppose  she  is  obliged  to  walk,  — this  is  sometimes  actually 
the  case  ;  —  happy  is  she  if  she  can  go  twenty  yards  without 
some  pain  or  other,  in  the  side,  the  back,  the  shoulder,  the 
great  toe.  Thus  the  pleasure  of  shopping,  promenading,  or  a 
picnic  is  imbittered. 

If  she  reads  a  chapter  in  a  novel,  the  chances  are  that  her 
temples  throb  for  it.  She  tries  to  embroider  a  corsair ; 
doing  more  than  an  arm  of  him  at  a  time  strains  her  eyes. 
Employ  herself  in  what  way  she  will,  she  feels  fatigued 
afterwards,  and  may  think  herself  well  off"  if  she  is  not 
worse. 

Without  a  care  to  vex  her,  save,  perhaps,  some  slight  mis- 
givings respecting  "the  captain,"  she  is  unable  to  rest,  though 
on  a  couch  of  down.  Exercise  would  procure  her  slumber ; 
but  0,  she  cannot  take  it ! 

AVhether  a  little  less  confinement  of  the  waist,  earlier 
hours,  plainer  luncheons,  more  frequent  airings  in  the  green 
fields,  and  mental  and  bodily  exertion,  generally,  than  what, 
in  these  respects,  is  the  fashionable  usage,  would  in  any  way 
alleviate  the  misei'ies  of  our  "  fair  sufferers,"  may  be  ques- 
tioned. It  may  also  be  inquired  how  far  such  miseries  are 
imaginary,  and  to  what  extent  a  trifling  exercise  of  resolution 
would  tend  to  mitigate  them.  Otherwise  supposing  them  to 
be  ills  that  woman  is  necessarily  heiress  to,  —  unavoidable, 
irremediable,  —  what  torments,  what  anguish,  must  fish  wo- 
men, washerwomen,  charwomen,  and  haymakers,  —  to  say 
nothing  of  servants  of  all  work,  —  and  even  ladies'  maids,  en- 
dure every  day  of  their  lives  ! 


APPLEDOKE  IN  A   STORM.  295 


APPLEDORE   IN   A   STORM.  —  J.  R.  Lowell. 

HOW  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  1 
I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 

Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 
When  surge  on  surge  would  heap  enorme, 

CUffs  of  emerald  topped  witli  snow, 

That  lifted  and  lifted,  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 

A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  iro 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under ; 

And  tlie  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 

To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire, 
Ycu  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to_plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 

Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill. 
And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 
Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep, 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge. 

Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  brea"kers 
You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather. 

That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together ; 

Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies. 

And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise. 

Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 
A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white, 
That  glimmer,  and  then  arc  out  of  sight. 

As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert  by  night. 

The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis  ; 

Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide ; 


296         PUBLIC  AXD  PARLOR  READINGS. 

There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  -wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and  lone ; 
And  wherever  the  weight  of  the  ocean  is  thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently- 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse  top. 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread, 

Groping  after  the  little  tower. 

That  seems  to  shrink  and  shorten  and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop. 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 

He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand, 

Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar. 
And  on  the  rock  point  tighten  your  hand. 
As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep. 

That  was  not  there  a  moment  before. 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 

Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all ; 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more ; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees, 
They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of  kelp, 
Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help  ;  — 

And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


h» 


1   HOLD    STILL.  297 


I   HOLD   STILL.— Julius  Sturm. 

PAIN'S  furnace-heat  within  me  quivers, 
God's  breath  upon  the  flame  doth  blow. 
And  all  my  heart  in  anguish  shivers, 

And  trembles  at  the  fiery  glow ; 
And  yet  I  whisper,  As  God  will  ! 
And  in  his  hottest  fire  hold  still. 

He  comes  and  lays  my  heart,  all  heated, 

On  the  hard  anvil,  minded  so 
Into  his  own  fixir  shape  to  beat  it 

With  his  great  hammer,  blow  on  blow ; 
And  yet  I  whisper.  As  God  will ! 
And  at  his  heaviest  blows  hold  still. 

He  takes  my  softened  heart  and  beats  it, 
The  sparks  fly  off"  at  every  blow  ; 

He  turns  it  o'er  and  o'er  and  heats  it, 
And  lets  it  cool  and  makes  it  glow ; 

And  yet  I  whisper.  As  God  will ! 

And  in  his  mighty  hand  hold  still. 

Why  should  I  murmur  1  for  the  sorrow 
Thus  only  longer  lived  would  be  ; 

Its  end  may  come,  and  will,  to-morrow, 
When  God  has  done  his  work  in  me  ; 

So  I  say,  trusting,  As  God  will ! 

And,  trusting  to  the  end,  hold  still. 

He  kindles  for  my  profit  purely 

Aflliction's  glowing  fiery  brand. 
And  all  his  heaviest  blows  are  surely 

Inflicted  by  a  master  hand  ; 
So  I  say,  praying.  As  God  will ! 
And  hope  in  him,  and  suffer  still. 
13* 


298         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


A  TEANKSGIVING  DINNER.  — Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens 

0,  I  love  an  old-fasliioned  thanksgiving, 
When  the  crops  are  all  safe  in  the  barn  ; 

When  the  chickens  are  plump  with  good  living, 
And  the  wool  is  all  spun  into  yarn. 

It  is  pleasant  to  draw  round  the  table. 

When  uncles  and  cousins  are  there, 
And  grandpa,  who  scarcely  is  able, 

Sits  down  in  his  old  oaken  chair. 

It  is  pleasant  to  wait  for  the  blessing. 
With  a  heart  free  from  malice  and  strife. 

While  a  turkey  that 's  portly  with  dressing 
Lies  meekly  awaiting  the  knife. 

CHRISTMAS,  New  Year,  the  Fourth  of  July,  in  short,  all 
the  holidays  of  the  year,  were  crowded  into  one  by  Mrs. 
Gray.  During  the  whole  twelve  months  she  commemorated 
Thanksgiving  only.  Yon  should  have  seen  the  old  lady  as 
Thanksgivino-  week  drew  near. 

You  should  have  seen  her  sun'ounded  by  raisins,  black 
currants,  pumpkin  sauce,  peeled  apples,  sugar-boxes,  and 
plates  of  golden  butter,  her  plump  hand  pearly  with  flour- 
dust,  the  whole  kitchen  redolent  with  gingei",  allspice,  and 
cloves !  You  should  have  seen  her  grating  orange-peel  and 
nutmegs,  the  border  of  her  snow-white  cap  rising  and  falling 
to  the  motion  of  her  hands,  and  the  soft  gray  hair  under- 
neath tucked  hurriedl}'-  back  of  the  ear  on  one  side,  where  it 
had  threatened  to  be  in  the  way. 

You  should  have  seen  her  in  that  large,  splint-bottomed 
rocking-chair,  with  a  wooden  bowl  in  her  capacious  lap,  and  a 
sharp  chopping- knife  in  her  right  hand  ;  with  what  a  soft,  easy 
motion  the  chopping-knife  fell  !  with  what  a  quiet  and  smiling 
air  the  dear  old  lady  would  take  up  a  quantity  of  the  pow- 
dered beef  on  the  flat  of  her  knife,  and  observe,  as  it  show- 
ered softly  down  to  the  tray  again,  that  "  meat  chopped  too 
fine  for  mince-pies  was  sure  poison." 


A   THANKSGIVING  DINNER.  299 

Yes,  YOU  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Gray  at  this  very  time,  in 
order  to  appi-eciate  fully  the  perfections  of  an  old-fashioned 
New  England  housewife.  They  are  departing  from  the  land. 
Railroads  and  steamboats  are  sweeping  them  away.  lu  a 
little  time  this  very  description  will  have  the  dignity  of  an 
antique  subject.  Women  who  cook  their  own  dinners  and 
take  care  of  the  work-hands  are  getting  to  be  legendary  even 
now. 

The  day  came  at  last,  bland  as  the  smile  of  a  warm  heart ; 
a  breath  of  summer  seemed  whispering  with  the  over-ripe 
leaves.  The  sunshine  was  of  that  warm,  golden  yellow  which 
belongs  to  the  autumn.  A  few  hardy  flowers  glowed  in  the 
front  yard,  richly  tinted  dahlias,  marigolds,  chrysanthemums, 
and  China-asters,  with  the  most  velvety  amaranths,  still  kept 
their  bloom,  for  those  huge  old  maples  sheltered  them  like 
a  tent,  and  flowers  always  blossomed  later  in  that  house  than 
elsewhere.  No  wonder  !  Inside  and  out,  all  was  pleasant  and 
genial.  The  fall  flowers  seemed  to  thrive  upon  Mrs.  Gray's 
smiles.  Her  rosy  countenance,  as  she  overlooked  them,  seemed 
to  warm  up  their  leaves  like  a  sunbeam.  Everything  gi-ew 
and  brightened  about  her.  Everything  combined  to  make 
this  particular  Thanksgiving  one  to  be  remembered. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  done  wonders  that  morning.  The  dinner 
was  in  a  most  hopeful  state  of  preparation.  The  great  red- 
crested,  imperious-looking  turkey,  that  had  strutted  away  his 
brief  life  in  the  barn-yard,  was  now  snugly  bestowed  in  the 
oven,  —  Mrs.  Gray  had  not  yet  degenerated  down  to  a  cook- 
ing-stove, —  his  heavy  coat  of  feathers  was  scattered  to  the 
wind.  His  head  —  that  arrogant  crimson  head,  that  had  so 
often  awed  the  whole  poultry-yard  —  lay  all  unheeded  in  the 
dust,  close  by  the  horse-block.  There  he  sat,  the  poor  de- 
nuded monarch,  turned  up  in  a  dripping-pan,  simmering 
himself  down  in  the  kitchen  oven.  Never,  in  all  his  pomp, 
had  that  bosom  been  so  warm  and  distended,  — yet  the  huge 
turkey  had  been  a  sad  gourmand  in  his  time.  A  rich  thymy 
odor  broke  through  every  pore  of  his  body  ;  drops  of  luscious 
gravy  dripped  down  his  sides,  filling  the  oven  with  an  unctuous 


300         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

steam  that  penetrated  a  crevice  in  the  door,  and  made  the 
poor  Irish  giii  cross  herself  devoutly.  She  felt  her  spirit  so 
yearning  after  the  good  things  of  earth,  and,  never  having  seen 
Thanksgiving  set  down  in  the  calendar,  was  shy  of  surrender- 
ing her  heart  to  a  holiday  that  had  no  saint  to  patronize  it. 

No  wonder  the  odor  thai  stole  so  insidiously  to  her  nos- 
trils was  appetizing,  for  the  turkey  had  plenty  of  companion- 
ship in  the  oven.  A  noble  chicken-pie  flanked  his  dripping- 
pan  on  the  right ;  a  delicate  sucking-pig  was  drawn  up  to  the 
left  wing ;  in  the  I'ear  towered  a  mountain  of  roast  beef,  while 
the  mouth  of  the  oven  was  choked  up  with  a  generous  In- 
dian pudding.  It  was  an  ovenful  worthy  of  New  England, 
worthy  of  the  day. 

The  hours  came  creeping  on  when  guests  might  be  expected. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  ready  for  company,  and  tried  her  best  to 
remain  with  proper  dignity  in  the  great  rocking-chair  that  she 
had  drawn  to  a  window  commanding  a  long  stretch  of  the 
road ;  but  every  few  moments  she  would  start  up,  bustle 
across  the  room,  and  charge  Kitty,  the  Irish  girl,  to  be  care- 
ful and  watch  the  oven,  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  sauce- 
pans in  the  fireplace,  and,  above  all,  to  have  the  mince-pies 
within  range  of  the  fire,  that  they  might  receive  a  gradual 
and  gentle  warmth  by  the  time  they  were  wanted.  Then  she 
would  return  to  the  room,  arrange  the  branches  of  asparagxis 
that  hung  laden  with  red  berries  over  the  looking-glass,  or 
dust  the  spotless  table  with  her  handkerchief,  just  to  keep 
herself  busy,  as  she  said. 

At  last  she  heard  the  distant  sound  of  a  wagon,  turning 
down  the  cross-road  toward  the  house.  She  knew  the  tramp 
of  her  own  market  horse  even  at  that  distance,  and  seated 
herself  by  the  window,  ready  to  receive  her  expected  guests 
with  becoming  dignity. 

The  little  one-horse  wagon  came  down  the  road  with  a  sort 
of  dash  quite  honorable  to  the  occasion.  Mrs.  Gray's  hired 
man  was  beginning  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  holiday ;  and 
the  old  horse  himself  made  everything  rattle  again,  he  was  so 
eager  to  reach  home  the  moment  it  hove  in  sight. 


A  THANKSGIVING  DINNER.  301 

The  wagon  drew  wp  to  the  door-yard  gate  with  a  flourish 
worthy  of  the  Third  Avenue.  Tlie  hired  man  sprang  out,  and, 
with  some  show  of  awkwai'd  gaUantry,  lifted  a  young  girl  in 
a  pretty  pink  calico  dress  and  a  cottage  bonnet  down  from  the 
front  seat.  Mrs.  Gray  could  maintain  her  position  no  longer ; 
for  the  young  girl  glanced  that  way  with  a  look  so  eloquent,  a 
smile  so  bright,  that  it  warmed  the  dear  old  l^idy's  heart  like 
a  flash  of  fire  in  the  winter  time.  .  She  started  up,  hastily 
shook  loose  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  went  out,  rustling  all 
the  way  like  a  tree  in  autumn. 

"  You  are  welcome,  dear,  — welcome  as  green  peas  in  June, 
or  radishes  in  Mai'ch,"  she  cried,  seizing  the  little  hand  held 
toward  her,  and  kissing  the  heavenly  young  face. 

The  girl  turned  with  a  bright  look,  and,  making  a  graceful 
little  wave  of  the  hand  toward  an  aged  man  who  was  tenderly 
helping  a  female  from  the  wagon,  seemed  about  to  sj^eak. 

"  I  understand,  dear,  I  know  all  about  it !  the  good  old 
people,  —  grandpa  and  grandma,  of  course.  How  could  I 
help  knowing  them  1 "  Mrs.  Gray  went  up  to  the  old  people 
as  she  spoke,  with  a  bland  welcome  in  every  feature  of  her 
face. 

"  Know  them,  of  course  T  do  !  "  she  said,  enfolding  the  old 
gentleman's  hand  with  her  plump  fingers.  "I  —  I  —  gracious 
goodness,  now,  it  really  does  seem  as  if  I  had  seen  that  face 
somewhere!'"  she  added,  hesitating,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed 
doubtingly  on  the  stranger,  as  if  she  were  calling  up  some 
vague  remembrance,  —  "  strange,  now  is  n't  it  1  but  he  looks 
natural  as  life." 

The  old  man  turned  a  warming  glance  toward  his  wife,  and 
then  answered,  with  a  grave  smile,  "  that,  at  any  rate,  Mrs. 
Gray  could  never  be  a  stranger  to  them,  —  she  who  had  done 
so  much  —  " 

She  interrupted  him  with  one  of  her  mellow  laughs.  Thanks 
for  a  kind  act  always  made  the  good  woman  feel  awkward,  and 
she  blushed  like  a  girl. 

All  truly  benevolent  persons  shrink  from  spoken  thanks. 
The  gratitude  expressed  by  looks  and  actions  may  give  pleas- 


302         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

ure,  but  there  is  something  too  material  in  words,  —  they  de- 
stroy all  the  refinement  of  a  generous  action.  Good  Mrs. 
Gray  -felt  this  the  more  sensitively,  because  her  own  words 
had  seemed  to  challenge  the  thanks  of  her  guest.  The  color 
came  into  her  smooth  cheek,  and  she  began  to  arrange  the 
folds  of  her  dress  with  both  hands,  exhibiting  a  degree  of 
awkwardness  quite  unusual  to  her.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes 
again,  they  fell  upon  a  young  man  coming  down  the  cross- 
road on  foot,  with  an  eager  and  buoyant  step. 

"  There  he  comes  ;  I  thought  he  would  not  be  long  on  the 
way,"  she  cried,  while  a  flash  of  gladness  radiated  her  face. 
"It's  my  nephew;  you  see  him  there,  Mrs.  Warren,  —  no, 
the  maple  branch  is  in  the  way  !  Here  he  is  again,  —  now 
look  !  a  noble  fellow,  is  n't  he  1 " 

Mrs.  Warren  looked,  and  was  indeed  struck  by  the  free  air 
and  superior  appearance  of  the  youth.  He  had  evidently 
walked  some  distance,  for  a  light  over-sack  hung  across  his 
arm,  and  his  face  was  flushed  with  exercise.  Seeing  his  aunt, 
the  boy  waved  his  hand ;  his  lips  parted  in  a  joyous  smile, 
and  he  hastened  his  pace  almost  to  a  run. 

Mrs.  Gray's  little  brown  eyes  glistened;  she  could  not  turn 
them  from  the  youth  even  while  addressing  her  guest. 

"  Is  n't  he  handsome  1  and  good,  —  you  have  no  idea, 
ma'am,  how  good  he  is !  There,  that  is  just  like  him,  the 
wild  creature ! "  she  continued,  as  the  youth  laid  one  hand 
upon  the  door-yard  fence,  and  vaulted  over,  "  right  into 
my  flower-beds,  trampling  over  the  grass  there,  —  did  you 
ever?" 

.  "  Could  u't  help  it,  Aunt  Sarah,"  shouted  the  youth,  with  a 
careless  laugh,  "  I  'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  and  the  gate  is 
too  far  off".  Three  kisses  for  every  flower  I  tramp  down,  — 
will  that  do  1     Ha  !  what  little  lady  is  this  1 " 

The  last  exclamation  was  drawn  forth  by  Julia  Warren, 
who  had  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  largest  maple,  and 
with  her  lap  fidl  of  flowers,  was  arranging  them  into  bouquets. 
On  hearing  Robert's  voice  she  looked  up  with  a  glance  of 
pleasant  surprise,  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  lips.     There 


A   THANKSGmXG   DINXER.  303 

•was  something  so  rosy  and  joyous  in  his  face,  and  in  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  that  it  rippled  through  her  heart  as  if  a 
bird  overhead  had  iust  broken  into  sonor.  The  vouth  looked 
upon  her  for  a  moment- with  his  bright,  gleeful  eyes,  then, 
throwing  off  his  hat  and  sweeping  back  the  damp  chestnut 
cxu'ls  from  his  forehead,  he  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  cast  a 
glance  of  laughing  defiance  at  his  relative. 

"  Come  out  here  and  get  the  kisses.  Aunt  Sarah.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  stay  among  the  flowers  !  " 

Mrs.  Gray  lavighed  at  the  young  rogue's  impudence,  as  she 
called  it,  and  came  out  to  meet  him. 

At  that  moment  the  Irish  girl  came  through  the  front  door 
with  an  expression  of  solemn  import  in  her  face.  She  whis- 
pered in  a  flustered  manner  to  her  mistress,  and  the  words 
"  spoilt  entirely  "  reached  Robert's  ear. 

Away  went  the  aunt,  all  in  a  state  of  excitement,  to  the 
kitchen. 

Whatever  mischief  had  happened  in  the  kitchen,  the  dinner 
turned  out  magnificently.  The  turkey  came  upon  the  table 
a  perfect  mii'acle  of  cookeiy.  The  pig  absolutely  looked  more 
beautiful  than  life,  crouching  in  his  bed  of  parsley,  with  his 
head  up,  and  holding  a  lemon  daintily  between  his  jaws.  The 
chicken-pie,  pinched  around  the  edge  into  a  perfect  embroidery 
by  the  two  plump  thumbs  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  then  finished  off" 
by  an  elaborate  border  done  in  key  work,  would  have  charmed 
the  most  fastidious  artist. 

You  have  no  idea  how  beautiful  colors  may  be  blended  on 
a  dinner-table,  unless  you  have  seen  just  the  kind  of  feast  to 
which  Mrs.  Gray  invited  her  guests.  The  rich  brown  of  the 
meats,  the  snow-white  bread,  the  fresh,  golden  butter,  the 
cranberry  sauce,  with  its  bright,  ruby  tinge,  were  daintily 
mingled  with  plates  of  pics,  arranged  after  a  most  tempting 
fashion.  Golden  custard,  the  deep  red  tart,  the  brown  mince, 
and  tawny  orange  color  of  the  pumpkin,  were  placed  in  alter- 
nate wedges,  and,  radiating  from  the  centre  of  each  plate  like 
a  star,  stood  at  equal  distances  round  the  table.  Water 
sparkling  from  the  well,  currant  wine  brilliantly  red,  con- 


304  PUBLIC    AOT)   PARLOR   READINGS. 

trasted  with  the  sheeted  snov/  of  the  tablecloth;  nnd  the 
gleam  of  crystal ;  then  that  old  arm-chair  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  with  its  soft  crimson  cushions.  I  tell  you  again,  reader, 
it  was  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  worthy  to  be  rerncmbercd. 
That  poor  family  from  the  miserable  basement  in  New  York 
did  remember  it  for  many  a  weary  day  after.  Mrs.  Gray  re- 
membered it,  for  she  had  given  delicious  pleasure  to  those  old 
people.  She  had,  for  that  one  day  at  least,  lifted  them  from 
their  toil  and  depression. 


THE  WOLVES.— J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

YE  that  listen  to  stories  told, 
When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 
Of  the  lone  woodside,  and  the  hiuigry  pack 
That  howls  on  the  fainting  ti-aveller's  track, 
The  flame-red  eyeballs  that  waylay. 
By  the  wintry  moon,  the  belated  sleigh ; 
The  lost  child  sovight  in  the  dismal  wood. 
The  little  shoes,  and  the  stains  of  blood 
On  the  trampled  snow,  —  ye  that  hear 
AVith  thrills  of  pity,  or  chills  of  fear. 
Wishing  some  kind  angel  had  been  sent 
To  shield  the  hapless  innocent,  — 
Know  ye  the  fiend  that  is  crueller  far 
Than  the  gaimt,  gray  herds  of  the  forest  are  1 
Swiftly  vanish  the  wild  fleet  tracks 
Before  the  rifle  and  the  woodman's  axe. 
But  hark  to  the  coming  of  unseen  feet, 
Pattei'ing  by  night  through  the  city  street. 
Each  wolf  that  dies  in  the  woodland  brown 
Lives  a  specti'e,  and  haunts  the  town  ! 
By  square-  and  market  they  slink  and  prowl, 
In  lane  and  alley  they  leap  and  howl ; 
All  night  long  they  snufi"  and  snarl  before 


.  THE  WOLVES.  305 

The  patched  -u-indow  and  the  broken  door. 

They  paw  the  clapboards,  and  claw  the  latch ; 

At  every  crevice  they  whine  and  scratch. 

Children,  crouched  in  corners  cold, 

Shiver,  with  tattered  garments  old  ; 

They  start  from  sleep  with  bitter  pangs 

At  the  touch  of  the  phantom's  viewless  fangs. 

Weary  the  mothei',  and  worn  with  strife, 

Still  she  watches,  and  fights  for  life  ; 

But  her  hand  is  feeble,  and  her  weapon  small,  — 

One  little  needle,  against  them  all. 

In  evil  hour  the  daughter  fled 

From  her  poor  shelter  and  wretched  bed, 

Through  the  city's  pitiless  solitude 

To  the  door  of  sin,  —  the  wolves  pursued  ! 

Fiei'ce  the  father,  and  grim  with  want, 

His  heart  was  gnawed  by  the  spectres  gaunt. 

Frenzied,  stealing  forth  by  night, 

With  whetted  knife  for  the  desperate  fight, 

He  thought  to  strike  the  spectres  dead,  — 

But  killed  his  brother  man  instead. 

0  ye  that  listen  to  stories  told 

When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 

Weep  no  more  at  the  tales  you  hear, 

The  danger  is  close,  and  the  wolves  are  near  I 

Shudder  not  at  the  murderer's  name. 

Marvel  not  at  the  maiden's  shame  ; 

Pass  not  by,  with  averted  eye. 

The  door  where  the  stricken  children  cry. 

But  when  the  beat  of  the  unseen  feet 

Sound  by  night  through  the  city  street. 

Follow  thou,  where  the  spectres  glide 

And  stand,  like  hope,  at  the  mother's  side ; 

And  be  thyself  the  angel  sent 

To  shield  the  hapless  innocent. 

He  gives  but  little  who  gives  his  tears. 


306         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

He  gives  best  who  aids  and  cheers. 

He  does  well  in  the  forest  wild 

Who  slays  the  monster  and  saves  the  child ; 

He  does  better,  and  merits  more, 

Who  drives  the  wolf  from  the  poor  man's  door. 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS.  — C.  E.  Norton. 

[One  of  the  banners  formerly  belonging  to  the  Covenanters  is  pre- 
served among  other  curiosities  at  Mareschal  College,  Aberdeen.  It  is 
of  white  silk,  with  the  motto  "Spe  Expecto"  in  red-letters.] 

WAKE!  wave  aloft,  thou  Banner!  let  every  snowy  fold. 
Float  on  our  wild,  unconquered  Jiills,  as  in  the  daya 
of  old ;  " 

Hang  out,  and  give  again  to  death  a'  glory  and  a  charm. 
Where  heaven's  pure  dew  may  freshen  thee,  and  heaven's  pure 

sunshine  warm. 
Wake !   wave  aloft !  —  I  hear  the  silk  low  rustling  on  the 

breeze 
Which  whistles  through  the  lofty  fir,  and  bends  the  birchen 

trees. 
I  hear  the  tread  of  warriors  armed  to  conquer  or  to  die ; 
Their  bed  or  bier  the  heathery  hill,  Jheir  canopy  the  sky.   _ 

What,  what  is  life  or  death  to  them  ?  They  only  feel  and  know 
Freedom  is  to  be  struggled  for,  with  an  unworthy  foe, — 
Their  homes,  —  their  hearths,  —  the  all  for  which  their  fathers, 

too,  have  fought, 
And  liberty  to  breathe  the  prayers  their  cradled  lips  were 

taught. 
On,  on  they  rush,  —  like  mountain  streams  resistlessly  they 

sweep,  — 
On !  those  who  live  are  heroes  now,  —  and  martyrs  those  who 

sleep ! 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS.       307 

While  still  the  snow-white  Banner  waves  above  the  field  of 

strife, 
With  a  proud  triumph,  as  it  were  a  thing  of  soul  and  life. 

They  stand,  —  they  bleed,  -«—  they  fall !  they  make  one  brief 

and  breathless  pause, 
And    gaze    with    fading   eyes    upon   the    standard   of    their 

cause ; — 
Again  they  brave  the  strife  of  death,  again  each  weary  limb 
Faintly  obeys  the  warrior  soul,  though  earth's  best  hopes  grow 

dim  ;  — 
The  mountain  rills  are  red  with  blood  ;  the  pure  and  quiet  sky 
Rings  with  the  shouts  of  those  who  win,  the  groans  of  those 

who  die  ; 
Taken,  —  retaken,  —  raised  again,  but  soiled  with  clay  and 

gore, 
Heavily,  on  the  wild  free  breeze,  that  Banner  floats  once 

more. 

Heaven's  dew  hath  drunk  the  crimson  drops  which  on  the 

heather  lay. 
The  rills  that  were  so  red  with  gore  go  sparkling  on  their 

way; 
The  limbs  that  fought,  the  hearts  that  swelled,  are  crumbled 

into  dust ; 
The  souls  which  strove  are  gone  to  meet  the  spirits  of  the 

just ;  — 
But  that  frail  silken  flag  for  which,  and  under  which,  they 

fought 
(And  which  e'en  now  retains  its  power  upon  the  soul  of 

thought) 
Survives,  —  a  tattered,  senseless  thing,  —  to  meet  the  curious 

eye, 
And  wake  a  momentary  dream  of  hopes  u,nd  days  gone  by. 

A  momentary  dream  !  0,  not  for  one  poor  transient  hour, 
Not  for  a  brief  and  hurried  day  that  flag  exerts  its  power  I 


308         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Full  flashing  on  our  dormaiit  souls  the  firm  conviction  comes, 
That  what  our  fathers  did  for  theirs,   we  too  could  for  our 

homes. 
We,  too,  could  brave  the  giant  arm  that  seeks  to  chain  each 

word. 
And  rule  what  form  of  prayer  alone  shall  by  our  God  be  heard  ; 
We,  too,  in  triumph  or  defeat,  could  drain  our  heart's  best 

veins. 
While  the  good  old  cause  of  Liberty  for  Church  and  State 

remains  ! 


HERVE   KIEL.— Robert  Browning; 

ON  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French,  —  woe  to  France  ! 
And,  the  thirtj'-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full 
chase. 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfre- 
ville ; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place, 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 

Get   us   guidance,    give   us   harbor,  take  us   quick,  —  or, 

quicker  still, 
Here  's  the  English  can  and  will ! " 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leaped  on 
board. 
"  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to  pass  ? " 
laughed  they ; 


HERV£  RIEL.  309 

"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the-  passage  scarred 

and  scored, 
Shall  the  Formidable  here,  with  her  twelve  and  eighty  guns. 
Think  to  make  the  river-month  by  tlie  single  narrow  waj-, 
Trust  to  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 
And  witli  flow  at  full  beside  1 
Now  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring  1     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  ! " 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight ; 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have  them 

take  in  tow 
All  that 's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stem  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  1 
Better  run  the  ships  agroimd  ! " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
"  Not  a  minute  moi'e  to  wait  ! 

Let  the  captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  bum  the  vessels  on  the  beach  I 
France  must  undergo  her  fate." 

"  Give  the  word  !  "     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these, — - 
A  captain  1     A  lieutenant  1     A  mate,  —  first,  second,  third  ] 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the 
fleet,  — 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herv6  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

And  "  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here  1 "  cries  Herv6 
Riel ; 
Are  you  mad,  you  Malouius  ]    Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or 
rogues  1 


o 


10  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 


Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings, 

tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Gr^ve,  where  the  river  disem- 
bogues 1 
Are  you  boiight  by  English  gold  1     Is  it  love  the  lying  's  for  1 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet,  and  ruin  France  1     That  were  worse  than 
fifty  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth !     Sirs,  believe  me, 
there  's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine. 

And  I  lead  them  most  and  least  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor,  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave,  — 

Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground,  — 
Why,  I  've  nothing  but  my  life  ;   here  's  my  head ! "  cries 
Herve  Riel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron ! "  cried  its 
chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace. 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound. 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's 
profound  ! 


I 


EERYt   KIEL  311 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock. 
Not   a   ship   that   misbehaves,   not  a  keel  that   grates   the 
ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past. 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last ; 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor ! "  —  sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late. 

So  the  storm  subsides  to  calm ; 

Thev  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heigiits  o'erlooking  Greve  : 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay. 
Gnash  theii-  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away  ! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee  ! " 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  captain's  countenance  ! 
Outburst  all  with  one  accord, 

"  This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  !  • 

■   Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Tliank  the  man  that  did  the  thing !  " 
\^^lat  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"  Herv6  Riel," 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  moz'e, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes^ 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
1  nmst  speak  out  at  the  end. 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard  : 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips ; 
You  have  saved  the  king  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 


312         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 

Deruand  whatever  you  will,  •; 

France  remains  your  debtor  still.  ■                                                 i 

Ask  to  heart's  content,  and  have  !  or  my  name  's  not  Damfre-        '■ 

ville."  t: 

1 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke  ; 

On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke,  I 

As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through  1 

Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  :  j 

"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say,  | 

Since  on  board  the  duty  's  done,  ' 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a 
run  1  —  .  .■ 

Since  't  is  ask  and  have  I  may,  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore,  —  .   • 

Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave   to   go   and   see    my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle 
Aurore  !  " 

That  he  asked,  and  that  he  got,  —  nothing. more. 

Narpe  and  deed  alike  are  lost ; 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack. 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore 
the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris ;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-meU 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ; 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere.  you  come  to  Herv6  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy   wife  the  Belle 
Aurore  ! 


THE   BESIEGED   CASTLE.  313 


THE  BESIEGED   CASTLE.  —  Scott. 

[Ivanhoe,  an  English  knight,  has  been  talien  prisoner  by  the  Nor- 
mans, and  is  lying  wounded  and  helpless  in  a  chamber  of  the  castle, 
under  the  care  of  Kebecca,  the  Jewess,  who  is  also  a  prisoner.] 

IX  finding  herself  once  more  by  the  side  of  Ivanhoe,  Re- 
becca was  astonished  at  the  keen  sensation  of  pleasure 
which  she  experienced,  even  at  a  time  when  all  around  them 
both  was  danger,  if  not  despair.  As  she  felt  his  pulse,  and 
inquired  after  his  health,  there  was  a  softness  in  her  touch 
and  in  her  accents,  implying  a  kinder  interest  than  she  would 
herself  have  been  pleased  to  have  voluntarily  expressed.  Her 
voice  faltered  and  her  hand  trembled,  and  it  was  only  the  cold 
question  of  Ivanhoe,  "  Is  it  you,  gentle  maiden  1 "  which  re- 
called her  to  herself,  and  reminded  her  the  sensations  which 
she  felt  were  not  and  could  not  be  mutual.  A  sigh  escaped, 
but  it  was  scarce  audible ;  and  the  questions  whicli  she  asked 
the  knight  concerning  his  state  of  health  were  ]3ut  in  the  tone 
of  calm  friendship.  Ivanhoe  answered  her  hastily  that  he  was, 
in  iDoiut  of  health,  as  well  and  better  than  he  could  have 
expected,  —  "  thanks,"  he  said,  "  dear  Rebecca,  to  thy  help- 
fill  skill." 

"  He  calls  me  dear  Rebecca,"  said  the  maiden  to  herself, 
"but  it  is  in  the  cold  and  careless  tone  which  ill  suits  the 
word.  His  war-horse,  his  hunting  hound,  are  dearer  to  him 
than  "the  despised  Jewess  ! " 

"  My  mind,  gentle  maiden,"  continued  Ivanhoe,  "  is  more 
disturbed  by  anxiety  than  my  body  with  pain.  From  the 
speeches  of  these  men  who  were  my  warders  just  now,  I  learn 
that  I  am  a  prisoner,  and,  if  I  judge  aright  of  the  loud  hoarse 
voice  which  even  now  despatched  them  hence  on  some  mili- 
tary duty,  I  am  in  the  castle  of  Front-de-Bocuf.  If  so,  how 
will  this  end,  or  how  can  I  protect  Rowena  and  my  father  ] " 

"  He  names  not  the  Jew  or  Jewess,"  said  Rebecca,  internal- 
ly;  "yet  what  is  our  portion  in  him,  and  how  justly  am  I 
punished  by  Heaven  for  letting  my  thoughts  dwell  upon 
14 


314         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOE  EEADEnGS. 

him  !  "  She  hastened,  after  this  brief  self-accusation,  to  give 
Ivauhoe  what  information  she  could ;  but  it  amounted  only 
to  this,  that  the  Templar  Bois-Guilbert  and  the  Baron  Front- 
de-Boeuf  were  commanders  within  the  castle  ;  that  it  was 
beleaguered  from  without,  but  by  whom  she  knew  not. 

The  voices  of  the  knights  were  heard,  animating  their  fol- 
lowers, or  directing  means  of  defence,  while  their  commands 
were  often  drowned  in  the  clashing  of  armor,  or  the  clamor- 
ous shouts  of  those  whom  they  addressed,  Tremendous  as 
these  sounds  were,  and  yet  more  terrible  from  the  awful  event 
which  they  presaged,  there  was  a  sublimity  mixed  with  them, 
which  Rebecca's  high-toned  mind  could  feel  even  in  that  mo- 
ment of  terror.  Her  eye  kindled,  although  the  blood  fled 
from  her  cheeks ;  and  there  was  a  strong  mixture  of  fear  and 
of  a  th)-illing  sense  of  the  sublime,  as  she  repeated,  half  whis- 
pering to  herself,  half  speaking  to  her  companion,  the  sacred 
text,  —  "  The  quiver  rattleth,  the  glittering  spear  and  the 
shield,  the  noise  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting  !  " 

But  Ivanhoe  was  like  the  war-horse  of  that  sublime  pas- 
sage, glowing  with  impatience  at  his  inactivity,  and  with  his 
ardent  desire  to  mingle  in  the  affray  of  which  these  sounds 
were  the  introduction.  "  If  I  could  but  drag  myself,"  he 
said,  "  to  yonder  window,  that  I  might  see  hcfw  this  brave 
game  is  like  to  go,  —  if  I  had  but  a  bow  to  shoot  a  shaft,  or 
battle-axe  to  strike  were  it  but  a  single  blow  for  our  deliver- 
ance !  It  is  vain,  —  it  is  vain,  —  I  am  alike  nerveless  and 
weaponless ! " 

"  Fret  not  thyself,  noble  knight,"  answered  Rebecca  ;  "  the 
sounds  have  ceased  of  a  sudden,  —  it  may  be  they  join  not 
battle." 

"  Thou  knowest  naught  of  it,"  said  Ivanhoe,  impatiently ; 
"this  dead  pause  only  shows  that  the  men  are  at  their  posts 
on  the  walls,  and  expecting  an  instant  attack ;  what  we  have 
heard  was  but  the  distant  muttering  of  the  storm,  —  it  will 
burst  anon  in  all  its  fury.  Could  I  but  reach  yonder  whi- 
dow  !  " 

"  Thou    wilt    but    injure    thyself   by    the    attempt,    noble 


THE    BESIEGED    CASTLE.  315 

knight,"  replied  his  attendant.  Observing  his  extreme  solici- 
tude, she  firmly  added,  "  I  myself  will  stand  at  the  lattice, 
and  describe  to  you  as  I  can  ^Yhat  passes  without." 

"You  must  not, — you  shall  not!"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe  ; 
"  each  lattice,  each  aperture,  will  be  soon  a  mark  for  the 
archers  ;   some  random  shaft  —  " 

"  It  shall  be  welcome  !  "  murmured  Rebecca,  as  with  firm 
pace  she  ascended  two  or  three  steps,  which  led  to  the  win- 
dow of  which  they  spoke. 

"  Rebecca,  dear  Rebecca  !  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe,  "  this  is  no 
maiden's  pastime,  —  do  not  expose  thyself  to  wounds  and 
death,  and  render  me  forever  miserable  for  having  given  the 
occasion ;  at  least,  cover  thyself  with  yonder  ancient  buck- 
ler, and  show  as  little  of  your  person  at  the  lattice  as  may 
be." 

Following  with  wonderful  promptitude  the  directions  of 
Ivanhoe,  and  availing  herself  of  the  protection  of  the  large 
ancient  shield,  wdiich  she  placed  against  the  lower  part  of  the 
window,  Rebecca,  wath  tolerable  security  to  herself,  could 
wntness  part  of  what  was  passing  without  the  castle,  and  re- 
port to  Ivanhoe  the  preparations  which  the  assailants  were 
making  for  the  storm.  She  could  observe,  from  the  number 
of  men  placed  for  the  defence  of  this  post,  that  the  besieged 
entertained  apprehensions  for  its  safety ;  and  from  the  mus- 
tering of  the  assailants  in  a  direction  nearly  opposite  to  the 
outwork,  it  seemed  no  less  plain  that  it  had  been  selected  as 
a  vulnerable  point  of  attack. 

These  appearances  she  hastily  communicated  to  Ivanhoe, 
and  added,  "  The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers, 
although  only  a  few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow." 

"  Under  what  banner  1 "  asked  Ivanhoe. 

"  Under  no  ensign  of  war  which  I  can  observe,"  answered 
Rebecca. 

"  A  singular  novelty,"  muttered  the  knight,  "  to  advance  to 
storm  such  a  castle  without  pennon  or  banner  displayed  ! 
Seest  thou  who  they  be  that  act  as  leaders  1 " 

"  A  knight,  clad  in  sable  armor,  is  the  most  conspicuous," 


316         PUBLIC  AND  TAELOE  EEADINGS. 

said  the  Jewess;  "  he  alone  is  armed  from  head  to  heel,  and 
seems  to  assume  the  direction  of  -all  around  him." 

"  What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield  1 "  replied  Ivan- 
hoe. 

"  Something  resembling  a  bar  of  iron,  and  a  padlock  painted 
blue  on  the  black  shield  !  " 

''  A  fetterlock  and  shacklebolt  azure,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  I 
know  not  who  may  bear  the  device,  but  well  I  ween  it  might 
now  be  mine  own.     Canst  thou  aiot  see  the  motto  1 " 

"  Scarce  the  device  itself  at  this  distance,"  replied  Rebecca ; 
"but  when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his  shield,  it  shows  as  I 
tell  you." 

"  Seem  there  no  other  leaders  1 "  exclaimed  the  anxious  in- 
quirer. 

^'  None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I  can  behold  from  this 
station,"  said  Rebecca ;  "  but,  doubtless,  the  other  side  of  the 
castle  is  also  assailed.  They  appear  even  now  prepainng  to 
advance.  God  of  Zion,  protect  \is  !  What  a  dreadful  sight ! 
Those  who  advance  first  bear  huge  shields,  and  defences  made 
of  plank  ;  the  others  follow,  bending  their  bows  as  they  come 
on.  They  raise  their  bows  !  God  of  Moses,  forgive  the  crea- 
tures thou  hast  made  !  " 

Her  description  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sig- 
nal  for  assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast  of  a  shrill  bugle, 
and  at  once  answered  by  a  flourish  of  the  Norman  trumpets 
from  the  battlements,  which,  mingled  with  the  deep  and  hol- 
low clang  of  the  kettle-drums,  retorted  in  notes  of  defiance 
the  challenge  of  the  enemy.  The  shouts  of  both  parties  aug- 
mented the  fearful  din,  the  assailants  crying,  "  Saint  George 
for  merry  England  ! "  and  the  Normans  answering  them  with 
cries  of  "  Un  avant  De  Bracy  !  —  Beau-seant  !  Beau-seanf  !  — 
Front-de-Boeuf  h  la  rescousse  I "  according  to  the  war-cries  of 
their  different  commanders. 

"And  I  must  lie  hei-e  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  exclaimed 
Ivanhoe,  "  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is 
played  out  by  the  hand  of  others  !  Look  from  the  window 
once  again,  kind  maiden,  but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked 


THE    BESIEGED    CASTLE.  317 

by  the  archers  beueath.     Look  out  once  more,  and  tell  mc  if 
they  3'et  advance  to  the  storm." 

With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval  which 
she  had  employed  in  mental  devotion,  Rebecca  again  took  post 
at  the  lattice,  sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  to  be  visi- 
ble from  beneath. 

"What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca  1"  again  demanded  the 
wounded  knight. 

"  Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to 
dazzle  mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them." 

"  That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe ;  "  if  they  press  not 
right  on  to  carry,  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery 
may  avail  but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look 
for  the  Knight  of  the  Fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how 
he  bears  himself;  for  as  the  leader  is,  so  will  his  followers 
be." 

"  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Fold  craven  !  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe  ;  "  does  he  blench  from 
the  helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest  1 " 

"  He  blenches  not !  he  blenches  not !  "  said  Rebecca.  "  I  see 
him  now  ;  he  heads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the  outei*  bar- 
rier of  the  barbican.  They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades  ; 
they  hew  down  the  barriers  with  axes.  His  high  black  plume 
floats  abroad  over  the  throng,  like  a  raven  over  the  field  of 
the  slain.  They  have  made  a  breach  in  the  barriers,  —  they 
rush  in,  —  they  are  thrust  back  !  Front-de-Boeiif  heads  the 
defenders ;  I  see  his  gigantic  form  above  the  press.  They 
throng  again  to  the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed  hand  to 
hand,  and  man  to  man.  God  of  Jacob  !  it  is  the  meeting  of 
two  fierce  tides, : —  the  conflict  of  two  oceans  moved  by  adverse 
winds  ! " 

She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer  to 
endure  a  sight  so  terrible. 

.  "  Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the 
cause  of  her  retiring  ;  "  the  archery  must  in  some  degree  have 
ceased,  since  they  are  now  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Look  again, 
there  is  now  less  danger." 


318         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  ex- 
claimed, *'  Holy  prophets  of  the  law  !  Front-de-Boeuf  and  the 
Black  Knight  fight  liand  to  hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the 
roar  of  their  followers,  who  watch  the  progi'ess  of  the  strife. 
Heaven  strike  with  the  cause  of  the  opjjressed  and '  of  the 
captive ! "  She  then  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  exclaimed, 
"  He  is  down  !  —  he  is  down  !  " 

"  Who  is  down  ] "  cried  Ivanhoe ;  "  for  our  dear  Lady's 
sake,  tell  me  which  has  fallen  1 " 

"  The  Black  Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  faintly  ;  then  in- 
stantly again  shouted  with  joyful  eagerness,  "  But  no,  —  but 
no  !  —  the  name  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  be  blessed  !  — he  is  on 
foot  again,  and  fights  as  if  there  were  twenty  men's  strength 
in  his  single  arm.  His  sword  is  broken,  • —  he  snatches  an  axe 
from  a  yeoman,  —  he  presses  Front-de-Boeuf  with  blow  on 
blow.  The  giant  stoops  and  totters  like  an  oak  under  the 
steel  of  the  woodman,  - —  he  falls,  —  he  falls  !  " 

"  Front-de-Boeiif  V  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  Front-de-Bceuf !  "  answered  the  Jewess ;  "  his  men  rush  to 
the  rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar, — their  united 
force  compels  the  champion  to  pause,  —  they  di'ag  Front-de- 
Bceuf  witliin  the  walls." 

"  The  assailants  have  won  the  banners,  have  they  not  ] "  said 
Ivanhoe. 

"  They  have,  — -they  have  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "and  they 
press  the  besieged  hai'd  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some  plant  lad- 
ders, some  swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the 
shovddci's  of  each  other,  — dowp  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks 
of  trees  upon  their  heads,  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the 
wounded  to  the  rear,  fresh  men  supply  their  places  in  the 
assault.  Great  God  !  hast  thou  given  men  thine  own  image, 
that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands  of  their 
brethren  1" 

"  Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  this  is  no  time  for 
such  thoughts.     Who  yield  1  —  who  push  their  way  1 " 

"  The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shudder- 
ing ;  "the  soldiers  lie  grovelling  under  them  like  crushed 
reptiles.     The  besieged  have  the  better." 


THE  BESIEGED   CASTLE.  319 

"  Saiut  George  strike  for  us  !  "  exclaimed  the  knight ;  "  do 
the  false  yeomen  give  way  1 '' 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  they  bear  themselves  right 
yeomauly.  The  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with 
his  huge  axe,  —  the  thundering  blows  which  he  deals,  you 
may  hear  them  above  all  the  din  and  shouts  of  the  battle. 
Stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on  the  bold  champion,  — 
he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they  were  thistle-down  or 
feathers  !  " 

"By  Saint  John  of  Acre,"  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself 
joyfully  on  his  couch,  "  methought  thei-e  was  but  one  man  in 
England  that  might  do  such  a  deed  !  " 

"  The  postern-gate  shakes,"  continued  Rebecca ;  "  it  crashes, 
—  it  is  splintered  by  his  blows, — they  rush  in, — the  out- 
work is  won,  —  0  God  !  —  they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the 
battlements,  —  they  throw  them  into  the  moatt  0  men,  if 
ye  be  indeed  men,  spare  them  that  can  resist  no  longer  ! " 

"  The  bridge,  —  the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the 
castle,  —  have  they  won  that  pass  1 "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  Nt),"  replied  Rebecca,  "the  Templar  has  destroyed  the 
plank  on  which,  they  crossed,  —  few  of  the  defenders  escaped 
with  him  into  the  castle,  —  the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you 
hear  tell  the  fate  of  the  others,  —  alas  !  I  see  it  is  still  more 
difficult  to  look  upon  victory  than  upon  battle," 

".  What  do  they  now,  maiden  1 "  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  look  forth 
yet  again,  —  thrs  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed." 

"  It  is  over  for  the  time,"  answered  Rebecca  ;  "  our  friends 
strengthen  themselves  within  the  outwork  which  they  have 
mastered  ;  and  it  affords  them  so  good  a  shelter  from  the 
foemen's  shot,  that  the  garrison  only  bestow  a  few  bolts  on 
it  from  interval  to  interval,  as  if  rather  to  disquiet  than 
eifectually  to  injure  them." 

"  Our  friends,"  said  Ivanhoe,  "  will  surely  not  abandon  an 
enterprise  so  gloriously  begun  and  so-  happily  attained.  O 
no  !  I  will  put  my  faith  in  the  good  knight  whose  axe  liath 
rent  hcart-of-oak  and  bars  of  iron.  Soest  thou  naught  else, 
Rebecca,  by  which  the  Black  Knight  may  be  distinguished  1 " 


o- 


20         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  Jewess ;  "all  about  him  is  black  aa 
the  wing  of  the  night  raven.  Nothing  can  I  spy  that  can 
mark  him  further,  —  but  having  once  seen  him  put  forth  his 
strength  in  battle,  methiuks  I  could  know  hira'agaiu  among  a 
thousand  warriors.  He  nishes  to  the  fray  as  if  he  were  sum- 
moned to  a  banquet.  There  is  more  than  mere  strength; 
there  seems  as  if  the  whole  soul  and  spirit  of  the  champion 
were  given  to  every  blow  which  he  deals  upon  his  enemies.  It 
is  fearful,  yet  magnificent,  to  behold  how  the  arm  and  heart 
of  one  man  can  triumph  over  hundreds." 

"  Rebecca,"  .said  Ivanhoe,  "  thou  hast  painted  a  hero ; 
surely  they  rest  but  to  refresh  their  force,  or  to  provide  the 
means  of  crossing  the  moat.  Under  such  a  leader  as  thou 
hast  spoken  this  knight  to  be,  there  are  no  craven  fears,  no 
cold-blooded  delays,  no  yielding  up.  a  gallant  emprise  ;  since 
the  difficulties  which  render  it  arduous  render  it  also  glorious. 
I  swear  .by  the  honor  of  my  house,  I  vow  by  the'  name  of 
my  bright  lady-love,  would  endure  ten  years'  captivity  to 
fight  one  day  by  that  good  knight's  side  in  such  a  quarrel  as 
this  !  " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Rebecca,  leaving  her  station  at  the  window, 
and  approaching  the  couch  of  the  wounded  knight,  "  this  im- 
patient yeanling  after  action,  this  struggling  with  and  re- 
pining at  your  present  weakness,  will  not  fail  to  injure  your 
returning  health.  How  couldst  thou  hope  to  inflict  wounds 
on  others  ere  that  be  healed  which  thou  thyself  hast  re- 
ceived 1 " 

"  Rebecca,"  he  replied,  "  thou  knowest  not  how  impossible 
it  is  for  one  trained  to  actions  of  chivalry  to  remain  passive 
as  a  priest  or  a  woman,  when  they  are  acting  deeds  of  honor 
around  him.  The  love  of  battle  is  the  food  upon  which  we 
live, — the  dust  of  the  melee  is  the  breath  of  our  nostrils  !, 
We  live  not,  we  wish  not  to  live  longer  than  while  we  are 
victorious  and  renowned.  Such,  maiden,  are  the  laws  of 
chivalry  to  which  we  are  sworn,  and  to  which  we  offer  all  that 
we  hold  dear. 

"  Thou  art  no  Christian,  Rebecca ;   and  to  thee'  are  un- 


THE   BESIEGED   CASTLE.  321 

known  those  high  feelings  which  swell  the  bosom  of  a  noble 
maiden  wiien  her  lover  hath  done  some  deed  of  emprise 
which  sanctions  his  flame.  Cliivalry  !  —  why,  maiden,  she 
is  the  nurse  of  pure  and  high  affection,  tiie  stay  of  the 
oppressed,  the  redresser  of  grievances,  the  curb  of  the  power 
of  the  tyrant.  Nobility  were  but  an  empty  name  without 
her,  and  liberty  finds  the  best  protection  in  her  lance  and 
her  sword." 

"  How  little  he  knows  this  bosom,"  she  said,  "  to  imagine 
that  cowardice  or  meanness  of  soul  must  needs  be  its  guests, 
because  I  have  censured  the  fantastic  chivahy  of  the  Naza- 
reues !  Would  to  Heaven  that  the  shedding  of  mine  own 
blood,  drop  by  drop,  could  redeem  the  captivity  of  Judah  ! 
Nay,  would  to  God  it  could  avail  to  set  free  my  father,  and 
this  his  benefactor,  from  the  chains  of  the  oppi'essor !  The 
proud  Christian  should  then  see  whether  the  daughter  of 
God's  chosen  people  dared  not  to  die  as  bravely  as  the  vainest 
Nazarene  maiden,  that  boasts  her  descent  from  some  petty 
chieftain  of  the  rude  and  frozen  North  !  " 

She  then  looked  toward  the  couch  of  the  wounded  knight. 

"  He  sleeps,"  she  said  ;  "  nature  exhausted  by  suiferance 
and  the  waste  of  spirits,  his  wearied  frame  embraces  the  first 
moment  of  temporary  relaxation  to  sink  into  slumber.  Alas  ! 
is  it  a  crime  that  I  should  look  upon  him,  wlicn  it  may  be 
for  the  last  time  1  When  yet  but  a  short  space,  and  those  fair 
features  will  be  no  longer  animated  by  the  bold  and  buoyant 
spirit  which  forsakes  them  not  e\en  in  sleep  !  But  I  will  tear 
this  folly  from  my  heart,  though  every  fibre  bleed  as  I  rend  it 
away  !  " 

She  wrapped  herself  closely  in  her  veil,  and  sat  down  at  a 
distance  from  the  couch  of  the  wounded  knight,  with  her 
T)ack  turned  towards  it,  fortifying,  or  endeavoring  to  fortify 
her  mind,  not  only  against  the  impending  evils  from  without, 
but  also  against  those  treachei'ous  feelings  which  assiiiled  her 
from  within. 

Ivanhoc  was  awakened  from  his  brief  slumber  by  the  noiso 
of  the  battle ;  and  his  attendant,  who  had,  at  his  anxious  de- 
14*  u 


322         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOE  READINGS. 

sire,  again  placed  herself  at  the  window  to  watch  and  report 
to  him  the  fate  of  the  attack,  was  for  some  time  prevented 
from  observing  either,  by  the  increase  of  the  smouldering  and 
stifling  vapor.  At  length  the  volumes  of  smoke  which  rolled 
into  the  apartment,  the  cries  for  water,  which  were  heard 
even  above  the  din  of  the  battle,  made  them  sensible  of  the 
progress  of  this  new  danger. 

"  The  castle  burns,"  said  Rebecca;  "  ic  burns  !  What  can 
"we  do  to  save  ourselves?" 

"  Fly,  Rebecca,  and  save  thine  own  life,"  said  Ivanhoe,  "  for 
no  human  aid  can  avail  me." 

"  I  will  not  fly,"  answered  Rebecca ;  "  we  will  be  saved  or 
perish  together  !  " 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  apartment  flew  open,  and 
the  Templar  presented  himself,  —  a  ghastly  figure,  for  his 
gilded  armor  was  broken  and  bloodj^,  and  the  plume  was  part- 
ly shorn  away,  partly  bm-nt  from  his  casque.  "  I  have  found 
thee,"  said  he  to  Rebecca.  "  There  is  but  one  path  to  safety ; 
I  have  cut  my  way  through  fifty  dangers  to  point  it  to  thee, 
—  up,  and  instantly  follow  me." 

"  Alone,"  answered  Rebecca,  "  I  will  not  follow  thee.  If 
thou  hast  but  a  touch  of  human  charity  in  thee,  if  thy 
heart  be  not  as  hard  as  thy  breastplate,  save  this  wounded 
knight  ! " 

"  A  knight,"  answered  the  Templar,  with  his  characteristic 
calmness,  —  "  a  knight,  Rebecca,  must  encounter  his  fate, 
whether  it  meet  him  in  the  shape  of  sword  or  flame." 

So  saj'ing,  he  seized  on  the  terrified  maiden. 

At  that  instant  the  Black  Knight  entered  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  If  thou  be'st  true  knight,"  said  Ivanhoe,  "  think  not  of 
me,  save  the  Lady  Rowena,  look  to  the  noble  Cedric  !  " 

"  In  their  turn,"  answered  he  of  the  fetterlock ;  "  but  thine 
is  first." 

And,  seizing  upon  Ivanhoe,  he  bore  him  off  wnth  as  much 
ease  as  the  Templar  had  carried  off  Rebecca,  rushed  with  him 
to  the  postern,  and  having  there  delivered  his  burden  to  the 


A   VISION   OF   BATTLE.  323 

care  of  two  yeomeu,  he  again  entered  the  castle  to  assist  in 
the  I'escue  of  the  other  prisoners. 

One  turret  'nas  now  in  bright  flames,  -which  flashed  out 
furiously  from  window  and  shot-hole. 

The  towering  flames  had  soon  surmounted  every  obstruc- 
tion, and  rose  to  the  evening  skies  one  huge  and  burning  bea- 
con, seen  far  and  wide  through  the  adjacent  country.  Tower 
after  tower  crashed  down,  with  blazing  roof  and  rafter ;  and 
the  combatants  were  driven  from  the  court-yard.  The  van- 
quished,  of  whom  very  few  remained,  scattered  and  escaped 
into  the  neighboring  wood.  The  victors,  assembling  in  large 
bands,  gazed  with  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  fear,  upon  the 
flames,  in  which  their  own  ranks  and  arms  glanced  dusky  red. 
At  length,  with  a  terrific  crash,  the  whole  tui'ret  gave  way. 
The  voice  of  Locksley  was  then  heard,  "  Shout,  yeomen  !  — 
the  den  of  tyrants  is  no  more  ! " 


A   VISION   OF   BATTLE.  —  S.  Dobell. 

HIST  !   I  see  the  stir  of  glamour  far  upon  the  twilight 
wold. 
Hist  I  I  see  the  vision  rising !     List !  and  as  I  speak  behold  ! 
These  dull  mists  are  mists  of  morning,  and  behind  yon  east- 
em  hill 
The  hot  sun  abides  my  bidding  ;  he  shall  melt  them  when  I 

will. 
All  the  night  that  now  is  past,  the  foe  hath  labored  for  the  day, 
Creeping  through  the  stealthy  dark,  like  a  tiger  to  his  prey. 

Throw  this  window  wider  !     Strain  thine  eyes  along  the  dusky 

vale  ! 
Art  thou  cold  with  horror  1     Has  thy  bearded  cheek  grown 

pale  ] 
'T  is  the  total  Russian  host,  flooding  up  the  solemn  plain, 
Secret  as  a  silent  sea,  mighty  as  a  moving  main  ! 


o 


24         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 


0  my  country  !    is  there  none  to  rouse  thee  to  the  rolling 

sight  1 
0  thou  gallant  sentinel  who  hast  watched  so  oft,  so  well,  must 

thou  sleep  this  only  night  1 
So  hath  the  sheplierd  lain  on  a  rock  above  a  plain, 
Nor  beheld  the  flood  that  swelled  from  some  embowelled 

mount  of  woe, 
Waveless,  foamless,  sure,  and  slow, 
Silent  o'er  the  vale  below, 

Till  nigher  still  and  nigher  comes  the  seethe  of  fields  on  fire, 
And  the  thrash  of  falling  trees,  and  the  steam  of  rivei's  dry. 
And  before  the  burning  flood  the  wild  things  of  the  wood 
Skulk  and  scream  and  fight  and  fall  and  flee  and  fly. 

A  gun  !  and  then  a  gun  !     I'  the  far  and  early  sun 

Dost  thou  see  by  yonder  tree  a  fleeting  redness  rise, 
As  if,  one  after  one,  ten  poppies  red  had  blown. 

And  shed  in  a  blinking  of  the  eyes  1 
They  have  started  from  their  rest  with  a  bayonet  at  each 
breast, 

Those  watchers  of  the  west  who  shall  never  watch  again  ! 
'T  is  naught  to  die,  but  0,  God's  pity  on  the  woe 

Of  dying  hearts  that  know  they  die  in  vain  ! 
Beyond  yon  backward  height  that  meets  their  dying  sight, 

A  thovisand  tents  are  white,  and  a  slumbering  army  lies. 
"  Brown  Bess,"  the  sergeant  cries,  as  he  loads  her  while  he 

dies, 
"  Let  this  devil's  deluge  reach  them,  and  the  good  old  cause 

is  lost." 
He  dies  upon  the  word,  but  his  signal  gun  is  heard, 

Yon  ambush  green  is  stirred,  yon  laboring  leaves  are  tost. 
And  a  sudden  sabre  waves,  and  like  dead  from  opened  graves, 

A  hundred  men  stand  up  to  meet  a  host. 
Dumb  as  death,  with  bated  breath, 
Calm  upstand  that  fearless  band, 

And  the  dear  old  native  land,  like  a  dream  of  sudden 
sleep, 


A   VISION   OF   BATTLE.  325 

Passes  bv  each  nianlv  eve  that  is  fixed  so  stei-n  and  dry 
On  the  tide  of  battle  rolUng  up  the  steep. 

They  hold  their  silent  ground,  I  can  hear  each  fatal  sound 
Upon  that  summer  mound   which  the  morning  sunshine 
warms, 
The  word  so  brief  and  shrill  that  rules  them  like  a  will, 
The  sough  of  moving  limbs,  and  the  clank  and  ring  of 
arms. 
"  Fire  !  "  and  round  that  green  knoll  the  sudden  war-clouds 
roll, 
And  from  the  tyrant's  ranks  so  fierce  an  answerinsr  blast 
Of  whirling  death  came  back  that  the  green  trees  turned  to 
black, 
And  dropped  their  leaves  in  winter  as  it  passed. 

A  moment  on  each  side  the  surging  smoke  is  wide, 

Between  the  fields  are  green,   and  around  the  hills  are 
loud, 
But  a  shout  breaks  out,  and  lo  !  they  have  rushed  upon  the 
foe, 
As  the  living  lightning  leaps  from  clotid  to  cloud. 
Fire  and  flash,  smoke  and  crash. 
The  fogs  of  battle  close  o'er  friends  and  foes,  and  they  are 

gone  ! 
Alas,  thou  bright-eyed  boj' !  alas,  thou  mother's  joy  ! 

With  thy  long  hair  so  fair,  that  didst  so  bravely  lead  them 
on  ! 

I  foint  with  pain  and  fear.     Ah,  Heaven  !  what  do  I  hearl 

A  trumpet-note  so  near  ] 
What  are  these  that  race  like  hunters  at  a  chase  1 

Who  are  these  that  run  a  thousand  men  as  one  1 
What  are  these  that  crash  the  trees  for  in  the  waving  rearl 
Fight  on,  thou  young  hero  !  there  's  help  upon  the  way ! 
The  light  horse  are  coming,  the  great  guns  are  coming. 

The  Highlanders  are  coming;  —  good  God,  give  us  the  day  I 


326         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  EEADtXGS. 

Hurrah  for  the  brave  and  the  leal !     Hurrah  for  the  strono' 

and  the  true  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  helmets  of  steel !     Hurrah  for  the  bonnets  o' 

blue  ! 

A  run  and  a  cheer,  the  Highlanders  are  here  !  a  gallop  and  a 

cheer,  the  light  horse  are  here  ! 
A  rattle  and  a  cheer,  the  great  guns  are  here  ! 

With  a  cheer  they  wheel  round  and  face  the  foe  ! 
As  the  troopers  wheel  about,  their  long  swords  are  out, 
With  a  trumpet  and  a  shout,  in  they  go  T 
Like  a  yawning  ocean  green,  the  huge  host  gulfs  them  in, 

But  high  o'er  the  rolling  of  the  flood, 
Their  sabres  you  may  see  like  lights  i;pon  the  sea 

When  the  red  sun  is  going  down  in  blood. 

As  on  some  Scottish  shore,  with  mountains  frowning  o'er, 

The  sudden  tempests  roar  from  the  glen, 
And  roll  the  tumbling  sea  in  billows  to  the  lee. 

Came  the  charge  of  the  gallant  Highlandmen  ! 
And  as  one  beholds  the  sea,  though  the  wind  he  cannot  see, 

But  by  the  waves  that  flee  knows  its  might, 
So  I  tracked  the  Highland  blast  by  the  sudden  tide  that  past 

O'er  the  wild  and  rolling  vast  of  the  fight. 
Yes,  glory  be  to  God  !  they  have  stemmed  the  foremost  flood  ! 

I  lay  me  on  the  sod  and  breathe  again  ! 
In  the  precious  moments  won,  the  bugle-call  has  gone 

To  the  tents  where  it  never  rang  in  vain. 
And  lo,  the  landscape  wide  is  red  from  side  to  side, 

And  all  the  might  of  England  loads  the  plain  ! 

Like  a  hot  and  bloody  dawn,  across  the  horizon  drawn, 
While  the  host  of  darkness  holds  the  misty  vale, 

As  glowing  and  as  grand  our  bannered  legions  stand. 
And  England's  flag  unfolds  upon  the  gale  ! 

At  that  gi-eat  sign  unfurled,  as  moi-n  moves  o'er  the  world 
When  God  lifts  his  standard  of  light, 


I 


HARMOSAN.  327 

With  a  tumult  and  a  voice,  and  a  rushing  mighty  noise, 
Our  long  line  moves  forward  to  the  fight. 

Clarion  and  clarion  defying, 

Sounding,  resounding,  replying, 

Trumpets  braying,  pipers  playing,  chargers  neighing, 

Near  and  far 

The  to-and-fro  storm  of  the  never-done  hurrahing, 

Throuixh    the   bright  weather-banner  and  feather  rising  and 

falling,  bugle  and  fife 
Calling,  recalling,  —  for  death  or  for  life,  — 
Our  host  moved  on  to  the  war, 

While  England,  England,  England,  England,  England ! 
Was  blown  from  line  to  line  near  and  far. 
And  like  the  morning  sea,  our  bayonets  you  might  see, 
Come  beaming,  gleaming,  streaming, 
Streaming,  gleaming,  beaming. 
Beaming,  gleaming,  streaming,  to  the  war. 

Clarion  and  clarion  defying, 

Sounding,  resounding,  replying. 

Trumpets  braying,  pipers  playing,  chargers  neighing, 

Near  and  far 

The  to-and-fro  storm  of  the  never-done  huiTahing, 

Through  the  bright  weather,  banner  and  feather  rising  and 

falling,  bugle  and  fife 
Calling,  recalling,  —  for  death  or  for  life,  — 
Our  long  line  moved  forward  to  the  war. 


HARMOSAN.  —  Dean  Trench. 

"'VT'OW  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian  throne 
-L  1  was  df)ne, 

And  the  ]\Ioslein's  fiery  valor  had  the  crowning  victory  won. 
Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  tlie  invader  to  defy, 
Captive,  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were  bringing  forth  to  die. 


328  PUBLIC   AND    PARLOR   READINGS. 

Then  exclaimed  that  noble  captive,  "Lo,  I  perish  in  my  thirst ; 

Give  me  but  one  drinlc  of  water,  and  let  then  arrive  the 
worst  !  " 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet ;  but  awhile  the  draught  for- 
bore, 

Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  foeman  to  explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest,  for  around  him 

angry  foes, 
With  a  hedge  of  naked  weapons,  did  that  lonely  man  enclose. 
"  But  what  fearest  thoul  "  cried  the  caliph.     "  Is  it,  friend,  a 

secret  blow? 
Fear  it  not !  our  gallant  Moslems  no  such  treacherous  dealing 

know. 

"  Thou  mayst  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for  thou  shalt  not 

die  before 
Thou  hast  driuik  that  cup  of  water,  —  this  reprieve  is  thine, 

—  no  more  !  " 
Quick  the  satrap  dashed  the  goblet  down  to  earth  with  ready 

hand. 
And  the  liquid  sank  forever,  lost  amid  the  burning  sand. 

"  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the  water  of  that 

cup 
I  have  drained  ;   then  bid  thy  servants  that  spilled  water 

gather  up  !  " 
For   a   moment   stood  the  caliph  as   by  doubtful   passions 

stirred,  — 
Then  exclaimed,  "  Forever  sacred  must  remain  a  monarch's 

word. 

"Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the  noble  Persian 

give  ; 
Drink,  I  said  before,  and  perish,  —  now  I  bid  thee  drink  and 

live  !  " 


OUR   COUNTKY   SAVED.  329 


OUR   COUNTRY   SAVED.  —  J.  R.  Lowell. 

BOOM,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple  ! 
Banners,  advance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves ! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak 

Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 

Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 

Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  eai'tli  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver  : 
Be  proud  !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to  save  her ! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door. 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind  ! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more.; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin. 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  to  hold  their  thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  unhai-mful  shore. 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated  ;  a  light  scorn 
Tlays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits. the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas.    . 

Bow  down,  dear  land,' for  thou  hast  found  release  ! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 

Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thee  peace ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  ])raisc  ! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 


530  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   READINGS. 

O  Beautiful  !  my  Country  !  ours  once  more  ! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
AVhat  w^ords  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it. 
Among  the  nations  bright  beyond  compared 
What  were  our  lives  without  thee  1 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  1 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee ; 
We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  ! 


THE  BLUE  AND   THE   GRAY.  —  F.  M.  Finch. 

[The  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  animated  by  nobler  sentiments 
than  are  many  of  their  sisters,  have  sliown  themselves  impartial  in  their 
offerings  made  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  They  strewed  flowers  alike 
on  the  graves  of  the  Confederate  and  of  the  National  soldiers.] 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 
Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  are  the"  ranks  of  the  dead ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings.of  gloiy. 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat. 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 


THE   BLUE   AXD   THE   GRAY.  331 

Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray, 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe  •;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all ;  — • 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
'Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue  ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth. 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won  ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 


332  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead  ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


THE  SENTRY  ON  THE  TOWER.  —  Sacristan's  Household. 

[This  incident  really  occurred  in  the  German  war  of  1866.] 

MIDNIGHT  sounded  with  a  thin,  jangling  voice  from  the 
belfry  of  the  old  tower  of  the  church  at  Goldenau  as 
Otto  Hemmerich,  having  toiled  up  the  winding,  narrow  stone 
staircase,  stepped  out  upon  the  roof,  prepared  to  watch  through 
his  term  of  sentinel  duty  in  the  dark  solitude.  Under  his  feet 
was  the  leaden  roof,  weather-scarred  and  stained.  The  plat- 
form whereon  he  could  pace  was  rectangular  and  very  limited. 
It  was  bounded  on  the  outer  side  by  a  low  parapet,  scarcely 
reaching  to  his  knee  as  he  stood. 

From  the  centre  of  the  square  tower  sprang  a  tapering 
spire,  which  rose  to  no  great  height,  and  was  surmounted  by 
a  creaking  weathercock  of  gilded  copper.  Thus,  whoso  ven- 
tured to  climb  the  steep,  winding  stair,  and  issue  forth  on  the 
roof  of  the  belfry -by  a  low,  straight  doorway,  found  himself 
on  the  narrow-  strip  of  leaden  roofing  which  surrounded  the 
spire.  To  the  summit  of  the  spire  itself  there  was  no  in- 
terior way  of  arriving. 

One,  two,  three,  and  so  on  up  to  twelve,  sounded  the  bell 
below.  The  bell,  which  was  the  clock's  voice,  hung  nearly  ten 
feet  lower  than  the  summit  of  the  tower.  Its  tone  was,  as  I 
have  said,  thin  and  jangling  ;  yet  more  thin  and  jangling  were 
the  bells  which  chimed  the  quarters,  —  ting  tang,  ting  tang, 
ting  tang,  ting  tang,  — like  the  querulous  voice  of  an  old 


THE   SENTRY   ON  THE   TOWER.  333 

man.  Thus  they  sounded  to  one  listening  down  in  the  vil- 
lage. Heard  nearer,  —  in  the  belfry  itself,  —  they  had  more 
resonance  ;  and  there  remained,  after  the  clappers  had  ceased 
to  swing,  a  long,  quivering  vibration,  which  seemed  to  pulse 
in  the  very  core  of  the  ancient  stone-work,  and  the  mouldering 
beams,  and  the  dry,  cracked  tiling. 

Otto  stood  by  the  parapet  looking  to  the  southeast  as 
the  last  hum  of  the  twelfth  stroke  died  away  in  his  ear. 
The  niaht  was  dark  and  moonless  ;  too  dark  for  it  to  be 
possible  to  see  the  landscape  stretching  far  below.  It  was 
■warm,  too,  as  it  had  been  all  day ;  although  at  that  height, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  mountain  range,  there  was  not 
wanting  a  certain  freshness  in  the  aii\ 

Looking  downward,  all  dark,  all  blank.  Only  straining  his 
eyes  as  they  grew  used  to  the  dimness.  Otto  could  discern  a 
famt,  steely  gleam  from  the  rivei",  looking  as  though  some 
soldier  had  dropped  his  bright  bayonet  upon  the  peaceful 
meadows.  Here  and  there  a  blacker  spot  gloomed  mys- 
teriously ;  and  that  he  knew  was  thick  tufty  woodland.  Not 
a  light  shone  from  the  village ;  not  a  footstep  sounded  in  its 
straggling  street. 

Otto  commenced  to  pace  up  and  down  with  solitaiy  regu- 
larity. One  o'clock  ;  half  past  one  ;  two.  Well,  it  was  lonely 
up  there,  after  all.  —  Ting  tang,  ting  tang,  ting  tang.  A  quar- 
ter to  three.  Swoop  came  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  and  wailed 
for  a  minute  or  two  through  the  loop-holes  and  crannies  of 
the  spire,  and  the  weathercock  creaked  up  aloft  complaining- 
ly.  Then  the  atmosphere  gi-ew  dead  calm.  It  was  darker 
than  ever.  The  sun  would  rise  at  about  a  quarter  of  four. 
Otto  knew  that.  He  knew  also  that,  according  to  the  saying, 
"it  is  always  darkest  the  hour  before  day."  In  a  little  more 
than  an  hour  would  come  daylight  and  his  release  together. 

Hark !  What  was  that  sound,  rising  upward  from  the  vil- 
lage ]  That  was  surely  the  roll  of  a  drum  1  A  single  horse 
clattered  up  the  street.  Then  there  was  a  bugle-call,  dis- 
tinctly audible  in  the  motionless  air.  Lights  twinkled  in 
more  than  one  casement.     What  was  going  on  ]     The  idea  of 


334         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

a  sudden  night-attack  by  the  enemy  came  into  the  head  of  the 
soUtaiy  sentinel  watching  from  the  tower ;  but  after  a  while 
he  dismissed  it.  Thei-e  was  no  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle-yollej, 
no  crashing  of  a  body  of  cavalry,  no  heavy  rumbling  artillery- 
over  the  roads.  Neither  were  any  voices  to  be  heard,  such 
as  would  have  arisen  from  the  terrified  villagers  under  such 
circumstances  as  their  home  being  suddenly  turned  into  a 
battle-gi'ound. 

Otto  knelt  down,  and,  leaning  his  chin  on  the  parapet,  lis- 
tened intently.  Surely  men  were  gathering  on  the  open  space 
around  the  tower.  Yes ;  more  and  more  distinctly  he  could 
hear  the  sound  of  footsteps.  Then  another  sharp,  sudden 
roll  of  drums,  startling  the  echoes  far  and  wide.  Again  a 
momentary  silence.  A  loud,  clear  voice  giving  out  the  word 
of  command,  "  March  !  "  —  the  measured  tramp  of  feet,  grow- 
ing fainter  as  it  receded  from  the  village  ;  doors  and  casemeijts 
closed  with  a  rattling  noise  ;  then  again  profound,  and,  thence- 
forward, unbroken  silence. 

"Strange  !  "  thought  Otto,  as  he  rose  from  his  knees,  after 
some  time.  "  They  must  be  sending  a  detachment  on  toward 
the  frontier.  And  yet  we  were  so  few  here,  I  wonder  that 
they  thought  it  well  to  divide  so  small  a  body."  As  he  turned 
to  resume  his  march,  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  broke  through 
the  darkness  in  the  east,  and  some  birds  began  to  stir  in  their 
nests  amidst  the  stone-work  of  the  steeple. 

Ting  tang,  ting  tang,  ting  tang,  ting  tang.  Four  o'clock  in 
the  morning !  Cocks  were  crowing  lustily  down  below.  The 
swallows  were  all  alive,  and  darted  hither  and  thither  through 
the  fast  brightening  sky.  The  chattering  of  garrulous  daAvs 
grew  more  and  more  voluble,  as  they  flew  with  busy,  flapping 
wing  in  and  out  of  their  haunts  on  the  spire. 

Silver-gray  ;  rose-color  ;  glowing  purple  and  crimson  ;  bright, 
gorgeous,  dazzling  gold !  There  was  the  sun  at  last,  burnish- 
ing the  old  copper  weathercock  into  temporary  brilliancy, 
and  making  the  river  —  steely  pale  erewhile  —  flash  and  flow 
like  molten  silver.  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  did  they  not 
come  to  relieve  the  guard  1     There  was  Otto,  however,  and 


THE   SENTRY    ON   THE   TOWER.  335 

there  it  behooved  him  to  remain.  His  duty  was  clear  ;  and  a 
duty  that  was  clear  he  had  never  flinched  from. 

It  was  full,  broad  day.  The  old  clock  reported  the  hour  to 
be  half  past  six.  The  good  people  of  Goldeuau  were  stirring 
about  theu-  daily  employments.  A  great  portion  of  the  high- 
way to  the  village  could  be  seen  from  the  belfry.  But  neither 
in  the  neai-  streets  and  lanes,  nor  on  the  distant  road,  could 
Otto  discern  a  glimpse  of  a  soldier's  uniform.  Not  a  dark 
blue  coat  was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  Wliat  did  it  mean  ] 
What  could  have  become  of   all  his  comrades  1 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  an  unusual  gathering  of  the 
citizens  on  the  public  square  around  the  tower.  Otto's  keen 
eyes  could  plainly  see  the  gestures  and  the  expression  of  their 
faces,  and  he  observed  that  he  himself  was  obviously  the  sub- 
ject of  some  discussion  among  them ;  for  every  now  and  then 
an  old,  stout,  stolid-looking  man,  whom  he  (Otto)  recognized 
as  the  burgomaster  of  the  place,  raised  his  arm  and  pointed 
upward  to  where  the  Prussian  sentry's  form  was  sharply  re- 
lieved against  the  sky  on  the  summit  of  the  belfry-tower. 

A  faint  suspicion  of  the  truth  began  to  dawn  in  Otto's 
mind.  He  examined  his  cartridge-box,  and  made  sure  that 
his  rifle  was  in  good  working  order.  Then  he  stood  quite  still 
at  "  attention,"  waiting  for  what  should  come  next. 

What  did  come  next  was  that  the  bui-gomaster  advanced 
singly  from  the  little  crowd  of  men,  on  whose  skirts  a  num- 
ber of  women  and  children  were  by  this  time  hovering,  and, 
putting  his  hollowed  hands  to  his  mouth,  bellowed  out  a  long 
speech,  addressed  to  Otto  upon  the  tower.  The  long  speech 
had  the  effect  of  making  the  stout  burgomaster  very  red  in  the 
face,  and  of  exciting  very  evident  approbation  among  his  fel- 
low-citizens ;  but,  further  than  that,  it  produced  no  result 
whatever. 

Otto  shook  his  head  and  touched  his  cars,  to  signify  that  ho 
could  not  hear,  and  then  stood  still  again.  Upon  this  the 
burgomaster,  after  giving  an  angry  shrug  at  the  deplorable 
waste  of  his  eloquence,  beckoned,  and  waved  his  arms  with  an 
impurious  gesture  of  command,  importing  that  the  sentry  was 


336         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

at  once  to  descend  from  the  altitude  of  the  tower,  and  appear 
in  his,  the  great  man's  presence  on  tey-ra  firma.  To  this  Otto 
vouchsafed  no  kind  of  reply,  but  shouldered  his  rifle,  and 
coolly  resumed  his  march  up  and  down  on  the  leaden  roof. 
Coolly  in  appearance,  that  is  to  say ;  for,  as  may  be  imagined, 
his  position  w\as  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  he  had  shrewd  mis- 
givings that  it  would  rapidly  become  decidedly  unpleasant. 

Two  things  were  clear  to  him.  Firstly,  that  the  detach- 
ment of  Prussians  to  which  he  belonged  had  left  Goldenau ; 
and,  secondly,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  did  not  ex- 
pect them  to  return.  Otherwise,  the  burgomaster's  swelling 
port  would  undoubtedly  have  been  modified.  How  or  why 
his  comrades  had  gone  ;  whether  they  had  remembered  the 
sentinel  on  the  belfry,  and  purposely  left  him  there,  intending 
to  return  ;  or  whether,  in  the  hurry  of  a  night-alarm,  they 
had  forgotten  his  existence,  and  were  now  in  the  thick  of  some 
hot  skirmish  with  the  foe,  he  could  not  tell. 

It  was  well  that  his  course  appeared  clear  in  the  matter, 
and  that  he  needed  no  long  time  to  decide  vipon  what  he  should 
do,  for  this  is  what  happened  as  soon  as  the  burgomaster  and 
the  assembled  crowd  on  the  square  clearly  perceived,  by  the 
sentiy's  resiimption  of  his  march  up  and  down,  that  he  in- 
tended to  pay  no  attention  to  their  summons.  First  the  great 
man  drew  back  a  little  from  the  foot  of  the  tower,  and  there 
gathered  around  him  a  group  of  the  chief  inhabitants  of  the 
place,  who  forthwith  entered  into  an  animated  discussion,  as 
far  as  could  be  gathered  by  their  gestures.  Then  the  burgo- 
master, being  apparently  urged  into  the  van  by  those  behind 
him,  advanced  with  stately,  although  rather  slow  footsteps  to 
the  postern-door,  which  gave  access  to  the  winding  staircase 
of  the  tower. 

Otto  peeped  over  the  parapet,  and  saw  the  burgomaster 
enter,  followed  by  four  or  five  other  men.  He  was  quite  un- 
certain what  would  be  the  nature  of  the  colloquy  he  was  now 
to  hold  with  the  authorities  of  Goldenau,  but  he  opined  that 
it  would  probably  not  be  a  pacific  one.  But  he  would  defend 
himself  to  the  uttermost,  and  had  no  more  idea  of  abandon- 


THE   SENTRY   OX   THE   TOWER.  337 

mg  his  post  on  the  belfry  without  due  authority  from  his 
superiors,  than  a  brave  sea-commander  has  of  deserting  the 
deck  of  his  vessel.  So  he  fixed  his  bayonet  firmly,  looked  to 
the  priming  of  his  piece,  and  set  himself  with  liis  back  to  the 
steeple,  and  exactly  facing  the  low  doorway  which  gave  access 
to  the  roof  of  the  tower. 

"  There  's  no  hurry,"  he  told  himself,  "for  the  burgomaster 
is  in  the  van,  and  it  will  take  him  some  time  to  climb  all 
those  steps,  even  if  he  does  not  stick  by  the  way  in  the  nar- 
row staircased' 

In  a  few  minutes  he  could  hear  the  panting  and  puffing  of 
the  stout  burgomaster,  and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  sci'ap- 
iug  heavy  and  springless  on  tiie  stone  steps.  Quick  as  liglit- 
ning  Otto  sprang  to  the  doorway  ;  pulled  open  the  heavy 
oaken  door,  which  opened  outward  ;  and  remained  with  fixed 
bayonet  directed  toward  the  winding  staircase. 

"  Yield,  Pmssian  !  "  cried  the  burgomaster,  huskily.  He 
was  not  yet  in  sight,  being  hidden  by  a^  turn  of  the  stairs. 

"  Who  goes  there  1"  answered  Otto.     "  Speak,  or  I  fire  ! " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  fire  !  don't  fire  ! " 

There  was  a  hustling  noise  on  the  steps,  and  a  thud,  as  of 
some  heavy  body  coming  violently  in  contact  witji  the  wall. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  the  voice  of  one  in  acute  pain.  "  You 
have  crushed  my  foot,  Mr.  Burgomaster !  Let  me  go  on  if 
you  're  afraid.     I  '11  tackle  him  ! " 

Thereupon  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  miller  of  Golde- 
nau  appeared  in  the  open  doorway. 

"  Go  back  there,  unless  you  want  my  bayonet  in  your  body. 
Back,  I  say  !  " 

Otto  made  so  threatening  and  resolute  an  advance  that  the 
miller  withdrew  in  his  turn,  though  much  less  precipitately 
than  his  predecessor,  and  remained  on  a  lower  step,  so  that 
his  flour-dustlSd  head  alone  was  visible  from  the  door  on  the 
roof. 

"Come,  sentry,"  said  the  miller,  "don't  be  a  fool!  We 
have  something  to  say  to  you.     You  can't  refuse  to  listen." 

"  I  don't  know  that.     You  have  no  business  to  talk  to  a 

15  V 


338  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

sentry  on  guai'd.  And  for  that  matter,  you  Lave  no  business 
here  at  all." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  of  one  circumstance,"  said 
the  miller,  with  something  like  a  sneer ;  "  namely,  that  your 
friends  have  abandoned  you  here  altogether.  They  are  on 
their  mai'ch  into  Bohemia." 

"  Enough  talk  !     I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you." 

"  Indeed  !  But  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  You  are 
our  prisoner ! " 

" Pooh ! " 

The  burgomaster's  voice  was  heard  from  the  lower  steps, 
coming  muffled  by  the  thick  wall.  "  Hallo,  there  !  Is  that 
Prussian  rascal  to  keep  ui  here  all  day  1  Why  don't  you 
bring  him  down  1 " 

"  He  won't  come  ! " 

"  Won't  come  ?     Nonsense  !     Drag  him  down  !  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  try  it,  Mr.  Burgomaster]  " 

"  The  first  man  who  advances  within  thi'ee  steps  of  the 
doorway  I  will  send  my  bayonet  into,"  said  Otto. 

The  miller  redescended  to  his  friends.  The  position  was 
rather  difficult.  The  staircase  wound  like  a  corkscrew,  and 
was  very  narrow  withal ;  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  advance 
up  it  otherwise  than  in  single  file.  Now,  although  eii  masse 
the  Goldenauers  were  exceedingly  anxious  to  perform  the 
glorious  exploit  of  taking  a  prisoner  of  war,  no  man  was  to 
be  found  willing  to  i*isk  his  individual  life  in  the  attempt. 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  a  broad-built-  man  like  myself  to 
venture  into  the  clutches  of  the  rascal,"  said  the  burgomas- 
ter, looking  wistfully  at  the  spare  figure  of  a  man  in  the  rear; 
"  but  if  any  light,  slim,  agile  person  were  to  make  one  spring, 
one  sudden  sprmg,  so  as  to  take  the  Prussian  off  his  guard, 
I  have  no  doubt  the  fellow  would  be  captured  easily,  quite 
easily." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  All  at  once  the  tavern-keeper 
made  a  brilliant  siiggestiou.  Why  should  they  not  reduce 
the  enemy  by  famine  1  The  idea  was  received  with  enthu- 
siasm.   It  was  resolved  that  the  contumacious  sentry  should  be 


THE    SEXTRY    ON   THE   TOWER.  339 

informed  that  he  would  remain  aloft  there  without  a  bit  or 
di'op  until  such  time  as  he  chose  to  svibrait  himself  to  the 
civic  authorities,  and  deliver  up  his  needle-gun  into  their 
hands. 

Otto  listened  wdth  grave  attention  to  the  decision  of  the 
council  of  war.  Then,  after  a  short  pause  of  deliberation,  he 
made  answer  thus  :  — 

"  I  am  right  sorry  to  find  the  Goldenauers  showing  such  a 
bad  spirit,  and  being  so  blind  to  which  is  the  good  side  for 
the  cause  of  Fatherland.  Also  I  think  it  my  duty  to  warn 
you  that  this  trick  of  yours  may  have  unpleasant  consequen- 
ces to  yourselves  when  my  comrades  come  to  relieve  me,  —  as 
of  course  they  will.  But  as  to  your  threat  of  starving  me 
out,  that  's  all  nonsense.  I  have  a  good  supply  of  cartridges; 
I  am  a  good  shot ;  this  tower  comuruinds  the  square,  and  all 
the  little  lanes  leading  to  it ;  —  and  unless  I  am  fed,  and  well 
fed,  I  swear  to  you  solemnly  that  I  will  pick  off  every  hu- 
man being  who  approaches  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
well  yonder  to  draw  water.  There ;  deliver  that  message  as 
my  answer  to  the  burgomaster,  and  try  to  persuade  him  that 
I  mean  what  I  say." 

With  ludicrously  chapfallcn  aspect  the  miller  carried  these 
bold,  resolute  words  to  his  companions.  Deliberations  fol- 
lowed, hastened  by  the  shrill  importunities  of  all  the  women 
of  Goldenau,  who  had  somehow  got  wind  of  the  matter,  and 
who  would  rather,  so  they  said,  feed  twenty  Prussians  than 
expose  the  lives  of  their  husbands  and  children,  not  to  men- 
tion their  own.  The  result  was,  that  Otto  was  left  to  sustain 
a  siege  on  the  top  of  the  belfry,  —  a  siege  with  the  unusual 
circumstance  that  the  besiegers  were  supplying  the  garrison 
with  victuals. 

For  two  days  this  singular  state  of  things  lasted  ;  the  sen- 
tinel being  formally  called  upon,  morning  and  evening,  to  yield 
himself  up  prisoner,  and  the  citizens  being  as  formally  warned 
that  on  any  failure  in  the  supply  of  food,  the  deadly  needle- 
gun  shouW  do  terrible  execution  on  them  and  theirs.  On  the 
third  day  the  regiment  returned,  and  the  guai'd  was  relieved. 


340         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

When  Otto  descended  from  his  airy  station  and  appeared 
on  the  square,  his  conn'ades  there  assembled  greeted  him  with 
a  hearty  ringing  "  Hurrah  !  "  And  his  captain  said  a  few  kind 
words,  applauding  his  fidelity  and  endurance.  That  was  all. 
The  explanation  of  his  having  been  abandoned  was  simply 
that  in  the  hurry  of  an  unexpected  summons  he  had  been 
foi'gotten.  An  outpost  had  received  warning  of  an  intended 
attack  by  a  party  of  Austrian  cavalry.  Their  commander 
had  sent  for  assistance  to  the  nearest  Prussian  detachment. 
The  contemiDlated  attack  had  not  taken  place,  however,  and 
Otto's  regiment  was  now  in  full  march  to  join  the  main  army. 


i 


BETSY  AND    I   ARE   OUT.— Will  M.  Carleton. 

DRAW  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and  stout ; 
Things  at  home  are  cross-ways,  and  Betsy  and  I  are  out. 
We  who  have  worked  together  so  long  as  man  and  wife 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  the  rest  of  our  nat'ral  life. 

"  What  is  the  matter  1 "  say  you.     I  swan  !  it  's  hard  to  tell ! 
Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we  've  passed  by  very  well. 
I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man ; 
Only  we  've  lived  together  as  long  as  we  ever  can. 

So  I  have  talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talked  with  me  ; 
So  we  've  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree. 
Not  that  we  've  catched  each  other  in  any  terrible  ci'irae  ; 
We  've  been  a  gatherin'  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had,  for  a  start, 
Though  we  ne'er  suspected  't  would  take  us  two  apart. 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  flesh  and  bone ; 
And  Betsy,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of  her  own. 

First  thing  I  remember  whereon  we  disagreed 

Was  somethin'  concernin'  heaven,  — a  difference  in  our  creed. 


BETSY   AND   I   ARE    OUT.  341 

"We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  we  arg'ed  the  thing  at  tea; 
And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question,  the  more  we  did  n't  agree. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow  ; 
She  had   kicked  the  bucket  for  certain,  —  the  question  was 

only  —  how  ] 
I  held  my  own  opinion,  and  Betsy  another  had ; 
And  when  we  were  done  a  talkin',  we  both  of  us  was  mad. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke ; 
But  full  for  a  week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke. 
And  the  next  was  when  I  scolded  because  she  broke  a  bowl ; 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  had  n't  any  soul. 

And  so  that  bowl  kept  pourin'  dissensions  in  our  cup ; 
And  so  that  blamed  old  cow  was  always  a  comin'  up  ; 
And  so  that  heaven  we  arg'ed  no  nearer  to  us  got, 
But  it  gives  us  a  taste  of  somethin'  a  thousand  times  as  hot. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  workin',  and  all  the  selfsame  way ; 
Always  somethin'  to  arg'e,  and  somethin'  sharp  to  say. 
Aiid  down  on  us  come  the  neighbors,  a  "couple  dozen  strong, 
And  lent  their  kindest  sarvice  to  help  the  thing  along. 

And  there  has  been  days  together  —  and  many  a  weary  week  — 

We  was  both  of  us  cross  and  spunky,  and  both  too  proud  to 
speak. 

And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of  the  win- 
ter and  fall, 

If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why  then  I  won't  at  all. 

And  so  I  have  talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talked  with 

me  ; 
And  wc  have  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is  mine  shall  be 

mine. 
And  I  '11  put  it  in  the  agreement,  and  take  it  to  her  to  sign. 


342         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer,  —  the  very  first  paragraph,  — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live  stock,  that  she  shall  have  her  half ; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
And   it  's   nothiu'   more    than  justice   that   Betsy  has   her 
pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead ;  a  man  can  thrive  and 

roam, 
But  women  are  skeery  critters,  imless  they  have  a  home. 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  failed  to  say, 
That  Betsy  never  should  want  a  home,  if  I  was  taken  away. 

There  is  a  little  hard  cash,  that  's  drawin'  tol'rable  pay,  — 
Couple  of  hundred  dollars,  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day,  — 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at ; 
Put  in  another  clause,  there,  and  give  her  half  of  that. 

Yes,  I  see  you  smile,  sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much ; 
Yes,  divorces. is  cheap,  sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in  such. 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and  young ', 
And  Betsy  was  al'ays  good  to  me,  exceptin'  with  her  tongue. 

Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so  smart,  perhaps, 
For  me  she  mittened  a  lawyer,  and  several  other  chaps ; 
And  all  of  'em  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken  down, 
And  I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in  town. 

Once,  when  I  had  a  fever,  —  I  won't  forget  it  soon,  — 
I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey,  and  crazy  as  a  loon,  — 
Never  an  hour  went  by  me,  when  she  was  out  of  sight ; 
She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  me  day  and 
night. 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitchen  clean, 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy,  as  any  I  ever  seen. 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsy,  or  any  of  her  acts, 
Exceptin'  when  we  've  quarrelled,  and  told  each  other  facts. 


THE   VOLUNTEER'S   WIFE.  343 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer ;  and  I  '11  go  home  to-night, 
And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it 's  all  right ; 
And  then  in  the  moruiu'  I  '11  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I  know, 
And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the  world 
1  '11  go. 

And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to  me  did  n't  occur : 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last,  she  bring  me  back  to  hei', 
And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years  ago, 
"NVhen  she  and  I  was  happy,  before  we  quarrelled  so. 

And  when  she  dies,  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by  me ; 
And,  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  will  agree. 
And  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven,  I  would  n't  think  it  queer, 
If  we  loved  each  other  better  for  what  we  have  quarrelled 
here. 


THE  VOLUNTEER'S  WIFE.— M.  A.  Dennison. 

"    A    N'  sure  I  was  tould  to  come  to  your  Honor, 

J-A_     To  see  if  ye  'd  write  a  few  words  to  me  Pat. 
He  's  gone  for  a  soldier,  is  Misther  O'Connor, 
Wid  a  sthripe  on  his  arm  and  a  band  on  his  hat. 

"  An'  what  '11  ye  tell  him  *?     It  ought  to  be  asy 
For  sich  as  yer  Honor  to  spake  wid  the  pen,  — 

Jist  say  I  'm  all  right,  and  that  Mavoorneen  Daisy 
(The  baby,  yer  Honor)  is  betther  again. 

"  For  when  he  went  off  it  's  so  sick  was  the  childer     '. 

She  niver  held  up  her  blue  eyes  to  his  face  ; 
And  when  I  'd  be  cry  in'  he  'd  look  but  the  wilder, 

An'  say,  '  Would  you  wish  for  the  counthry's  disgrace  ] ' 

"  So  he  left  her  in  danger,  and  me  sorely  gratin', 
To  follow  the  flag  wid  an  Irishman's  joy ;  — 


344         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

0,  it  's  often  I  drame  of  the  big  drums  a  batin', 
An'  a  bullet  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of  me  boy. 

"  An'  say  will  he  send  me  a  bit  of  his  money, 

For  the  I'int  an'  the  docther's  bill  due  in  a  wake ;  — 

Well,  surely,  there  's  tears  on  yer  eyelashes,  honey  ! 
Ah,  faith,  I  've  no  right  with  such  freedom  to  spake. 

"  You  've  overmuch  trifling,  I  '11  not  give  ye  trouble, 
I  '11  find  some  one  willin  —     0,  what  can  it  be  ? 

What  's  that  in  the  newspaper  folded  up  double  1 
Yer  Honor,  don't  hide  it,  but  rade  it  to  me. 

"  What,  Patrick  O'Connor  !     Xo,  no  !  't  is  some  other ! 

Dead  !  dead  !  no,  not  him  !    'T  is  a  wake  scarce  gone  by. 
Dead  !  dead  !  why  the  kiss  on  the  cheek  of  his  mother, 

It  has  n't  had  time  yet,  yer  Honor,  to  dry. 

"  Don't  tell  me  !     It  's  not  him  !     0  God,  am  I  crazy  1 
Shot  dead  !     0  for  love  of  sweet  Heaven,  say  no 

0,  what  '11  I  do  in  the  world  wid  poor  Daisy  ! 
0,  how  will  I  live,  an'  0,  where  will  I  go  ! 

"  The  room  is  so  dark  I  'm  not  seein',  yer  Honor, 
I  think  I  '11  go  home  —  "     And  a  sob  thick  and  dry 

Came  sharp  from  the  bosom  of  Mary  O'Connor, 
But  never  a  tear-drop  welled  up  to  her  eye. 


THE  ROBBER. 

OiST  the  lone  deserted  cross-i*oad, 
Under  the  high  crucifix, 
Stood  the  7-obber,  slyly  lurking; 
In  his  hand  his  naked  sabre 
And  his  rifle,  heavy  loaded. 
For  the  merchant  would  he  plunder, 
Who,  with  his  full  weight  of  money, 


THE   ROBBER.  340 

With  his  garments,  find  his  rare  wines, 
Came  to-day  home  from  tiie  market. 
Down  already  had  the  sun  sunk, 
And  the  moon  peers  through  the  cloudlets, 
And  the  robber  stands  awaiting 
Under  the  high  crucifix. 

Hark  !  a  sound  like  angel  voices, 
Soft,  low  sighing  deep  entreaty, 
Coming  clear  as  evening  bells 
Borne  through  the  still  atmosphere  ! 
Sweet  with  unaccustomed  accent 
Steals  a  prayer  upon  his  car, 
And  he  stands  and  listens  anxious,  — > 

"  0  thou  Guide  of  the  deserted  ! 
0  thou  Guardian  of  the  lost  ones  ! 
Bend,  0  bend  thy  heavenly  face. 
Clear  as  sunlight,  softly  smiling, 
Down  on  us,  four  little  ones  ; 
Fold,  0  fold  thy  arms  of  mercy, 
Which  -were  on  the  cross  extended, 
Like  two  wings  around  our  father. 
That  no  storm  destroy  his  pathway, 
That  his  good  steed  may  not  stumble, 
That  the  robber,  still  and  lurking 
In  the  forest,  may  net  harm  him. 
0  Protector  of  the  abandoned, 
0  thou  Guide  of  the  deserted, 
Send  us  home  our  own  dear  father!" 
And  the  robber  heard  it  all 

Under  the  high  crucifix. 

Then  the  youngest  crossing  himself, 
Folding  his  soft  hands  demurely,  — 
"0  thou  dear  Christ,"  lisps  he,  childlike, 
"  0,  I  know  tho\i  art  almighty. 
Sitting  on  the  throne  of  heaven, 

15* 


346   .      PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

With  the  stars  all  glittering  golden,  — 
As  the  nurse  has  told  me  often,  — 
O,  be  gracious,  0  thou  dear  Christ ! 
Give  the  robbers,  the  rapacious. 
Give  them  bread,  and  bread  in  plenty, 
That  they  may  not  need  to  plunder 
Or  to  murder  our  good  father  ! 
Did  I  know  where  lived  a  robber, 
I  would  give  this  little  chainlet, 
Give  to  him  this  cross  and  girdle, 
Saying,  '  0  thou  dear,  dear  robber, 
Take  this  chain,  this  cross,  and  girdle, 
That  you  may  not  need  to  plunder 
Or  to  murder  our  dear  father  !  " 
And  the  robber  hears  it  all 
Under  the  high  crucifix. 

From  afar  he  hears  approaching 
Snorting  steeds  and  wheels  swift  rolling. 
Slowly  then  he  takes  his  rifle. 
Slowly  does  he  seize  his  sabre, 
And  he  stands  there  deeply  thinking, 
Under  the  high  crucifix. 

And  the  children  still  are  kneeling,  — 
"  0  thou  Guide  of  the  deserted, 
O  thou  Guardian  of  the  wanderer. 
Send  us  home  our  own  dear  father  ! " 
And  the  father  came  home  riding 
All  in  safety,  unendangered  ; 
Clasps  his  children  to  his  bosom,  — 
Happy  stammerings,  kisses  sweet. 

Only  the  bare  sabre  found  they ; 
Found  the  rifle  heavy  loaded  ; 
Both  had  fallen  from  his  hand 
Under  the  high  cinicifix. 


KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE.  347 

KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE.  —  Joaquin    Miller. 

i  UX  ?     Now  you  bet  jou  ;  I  rather  guess  so. 

Bat  he  's  bliud  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  Pache,  boy,  whoa. 
No,  you  would  u't  think  so  to  look  at  his  eyes. 
But  he  is  badger  blind,  and  it  happened  this  wise  :  — 

•  •  *  * 

We  lay  law  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 

Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride. 

"  Forty  ftdl  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 

When  once  they  strike  it.     Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 

As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso ;  then  he  jerked  at  his  steed, 

And  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 

And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  to  the  ground,  — . 

Then  again  to  his  feet  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 

While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 

His  foi-m  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 

And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed,  — 

"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed, 

And  speed,  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed  ; 

And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride, 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

And  feet  of  wild  hoi'ses  hard  flying  before 

I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore ; 

AVhile  the  buff"alo  come  like  the  siu'ge  of  the  sea. 

Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 

As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein. 

Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them  over  again. 

And  again  drew  the  girth,  ciist  aside  the  macheer, 

Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 

Cast  aside  the  catenas  red  and  spangled  with  gold, 

And  gold-mounted  Colt's,  true  companions  for  years. 


348         PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS. 

Cast  the  red  silk  serapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 
And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sjDrang  all  haste  to  the  horse, 
As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God,  without  word,  or  one  woi'd  of  command, 
Tunied  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course  ; 
Tuined  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  armj,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea, 
Rushing  fast  upon  lis  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert,  bearing  death  and  despair. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall. 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  or  low  call 
Of  love-note  or  courage,  but  on  o'er  the  plain 
■  So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 
With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 
Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  gray  nose  and  nose, 
Reaching  long,  breathing  loud,  like  a  creviced  wind  blows, 
Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air. 
And  the  chance  w^as  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

Gray  nose  to  gi'ay  nose  and  each  steady  mustang 

Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the  hollow  earth  rang 

And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the  neck 

Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 

Twenty  miles  !  thirty  miles  !  ....  a  dim  distant  speck  .... 

Then  a  long  reaching  line  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 

And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delicrht. 

I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right, 

But  Revels  was  gone  ;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 

And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 

Hard  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 

Low  down  to  the  mane  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 

Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 


X 


KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE..  349 

To  right  and  to  left  the  black  bufTiilo  came, 

In  miles  and  in  millions,  rolling  on  in  despair, 

"With  their  beards  to  the  dust  and  black  tails  in  the  air. 

As  a  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 

Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher, 

.And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 

The  monarch  of  millions,  witii  shaggy  mane  full 

Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 

Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 

And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 

Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 

While  his  keen  crooked  horns  through  the  storm  of  his  mane 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again  ; 

And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 

And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I  looked  to  my  left  then,  and  nose,  neck,  and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs  ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair, 
And  a  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  reaching  for  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  subside  and  recede  and  the  nerves  foil  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  that  my  own  steed  still  lorded  his  head 
W^ith  alook  of  delight,  for  this  Pach6,  you  see, 
Was  her  father's,  and  once  at  the  South  Santafeo 
Had  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything  down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown ; 
And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride,  — 
My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 
And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe,  — 
She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 
She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 
From  the  lodge  of  tlie  chief  to  the  north  Brazos  side; 


350         PUBLIC  AND  PAELOR  READINGS. 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 

As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 

The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 

I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 

Than  to  ride,  without  hlood,  to  the  north  Brazos  side, 

And  await  her,  —  and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 

Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 

And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 

Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as  she  fell 

From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 

The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 

That  I  should  escape,  —  a  love,  —  a  desire,  — 

Yet  never  a  word,  not  a  look  of  appeal, 

Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 

One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Then  the  rushing  of  fire  rose  around  me  and  under, 

And  the  howling  of  beasts  like  the  sound  of  thunder,  — 

Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 

As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them  and  wove  her 

Hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died,  — ■ 

Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 

As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone. 

And  into  the  Brazos  ....  I  rode  all  alone,  — - 

All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed, 

And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 

Then  just  as  the  teirible  sea  came  in 

And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 

Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 

In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 

Sell  Pache,  —  blind  Pach^  1     Now,  mister,  look  here,     ' 

You  have  slept  in  my  tent  and  partook  of  my  cheer 

Many  days,  many  days,  on  this  rugged  frontier. 

For  the  ways  they  were  rough  and  Camanches  were  near  j 

But  you  'd  better  pack  up  !     Curse  your  dirty  skin  ! 

I  could  n't  have  thoxisfht  vou  so  ni2:gardlv  small. 

Do  you  men  that  make  boots  think  an  old  mountaineer 


THE   VOICE.  351 

On  the  rough  border  born  has  no  tnm-tum  at  all  1 
Sell  Pache  ?     You  buy  him  !     A  bag  full  of  gold  ! 
You  show  him  !     Tell  of  him  the  tale  I  have  told  ! 
"Why  he  bore  me  through  fire,  and  is  blind,,  and  is  old  ! 
Now  pack  up  your  papers  and  get  up  and  spin, 
And  never  look  back.     Blast  you  and  your  tin ! 


THE     VOICE.  —  FORCETTHE    WiLLSON. 

A  SAINTLY  Voice  fell  on  my  ear 
Out  of  the  dewy  atmosphere  : 
"  0  hush,  dear  Bird  of  Night,  be  mute  ; 
Be  still,  0  throbbing  heart  and  lute  !  " 
The  Night-Bird  shook  the  sparkling  dew 
Upon  me  as  he  iiiffed  and  flew  ; 
My  heart  was  still  almost  as  soon, 
My  lute  as  silent  as  the  moon ; 
I  hushed  my  heart  and  held  my  breath. 
And  would  have  died  the  death  of  death 
To  hear,  —  but  just  once  more,  —  to  hear 
That  Voice  within  the  atmosphere. 

Again  the  Voice  fell  on  my  ear 
Out  of  the  dewy  atmosphere. 
The  same  words,  but  half  heard  at  first, 
I  listened  with  a  quenchless  thirst, 
And  drank  as  of  that  heavenly  balm, 
The  Silence  that  succeeds  a  psalm ; 
My  soul  to  ecstasy  was  stirred, 
It  was  a  voice  that  I  had  heard 
A  thousand  blissful  times  before, 
But  deemed  that  I  should  hear  no  more 
Till  I  should  have  a  Spirit's  ear 
.  And  breathe  another  Atmosphere. 

Then  there  was  Silence  in  ray  car,  . 
And  Silence  in  the  atmusphcre  ; 


352'  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   READINGS. 

And  silent  moonshine  on  the  mart, 
And  peace  and  silence  in  my  heart; 
But  suddenly  a  dark  Doubt  said, 
"  The  fancy  of  a  fevered  head  ! " 
A  wild,  quick  whirlwind  of  desire 
Then  wrapt  me  as  in  folds  of  fire ; 
I  ran  the  strange  words  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  listened  breathlessly  once  more ; 
And  lo,  the  third  time,  I  did  hear 
The  same  words  in  the  atmosphere  ! 

They  fell  and  died  upon  my  ear 

As  dew  dies  on  the  atmosphere  ; 

And  then  an  intense  yearning  thrilled 

My  Soul,  that  all  might  be  fulfilled  : 

"  Where  art  thou,  Blessed  Spirit,  where  ? 

Whose  Voice  is  dew  upon  the  air  ! " 

I  looked,  around  me,  and  above. 

And  cried  aloud,   "  Where  art  thou,  Love  1 

0,  let  me  see  thy  living  eye, 

And  clasp  thy  living  hand,  or  die  !  " 

Again,  upon  the  atmosphere, 

The  selfsame  words  fell,  "  /  Am  Here  !  " 

"  Here  ^    Thou  art  here,  Love  !  "    ".  I  Am  Here  I " 

The  echo  died  upon  my  ear ; 

I  looked  around  me,  —  everywhere  ; 

But,  ah  !  there  was  no  mortal  there  ! 

The  moonlight  was  upon  the  mart, 

And  Awe  and  Wonder  in  my  heart ! 

I  saw' no  form !  —  I  only  felt 

Heaven's  Peace  upon  me  as  I  knelt ; 

And  knew  a  Soul  Beatified 

Was  at  that  moment  by  my  side  ! 

And  thei-'t^tis  Silence  in  my  ear, 

Ana  Silence  in  the  atmosphere  ! 


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